What's Good for the Soul
by Spike's Willing Slave
Summary: COMPLETED. Spike's summer 2002 - post soul. Response to some friends wanting Spike to get a little kindness and understanding. SpikeOther(open mind please!). R&R.
1. The Beginning

What's Good for the Soul

Chapter 1

Something was wrong with the ship.

Spike could feel the vessel pitch and toss beneath his feet as waves pounded it from all sides. He moved back unsteadily, farther into the mass of containers that crammed the hold. The cargo bay was filled with them, stacked tightly together, with only tiny narrow walkways between the rows. Water was pouring through a cracked seam in the bulkhead, soaking him up to the cuffs of his torn pants, numbing his already cold feet. Slipping around one tight corner, he stumbled over the body of one of the crew. The man had been sent below, when the storm started, to check that the containers were well secured. They weren't. Loose rigging had slipped from one of the containers, the steel stays striking him in the head, killing him instantly. No one had missed him. Yet. Spike regarded the body with a mixture of fear and guilt. It wasn't his fault - the man's death. He had seen it happen, heard the wet thud of steel meeting flesh and bone, saw him crumple to the flooded deck. The smell of blood had pulled him closer. He had been so hungry, he couldn't help himself. He fed off the fresh kill until the pangs subsided, the headiness of feeding on human blood after so long fogging his brain. He hated that he still felt the need to feed on people and was ashamed of his actions.

A loud crack echoed through the hold and the water began to pour in more quickly. Spike could hear the panicked shouts of the crew above, but didn't understand what they were saying. The ship lurched starboard and he was slammed into a set of containers. Fastenings snapped around him and the loads began to shift, further stricturing the narrow passages. Being discovered by the crew was now the least of his worries; if he didn't get out of the cargo hold, he would die.

Scrambling as fast as the cold water would allow him, he made his way out of the belly of the ship to the deck above. It was chaos. Rain and waves beat down on the deck, the wind whipping all unsecured equipment around and making movement even more difficult. Men ran, yelling to one another, skidding on the slick decking as they piled into lifeboats. Spike watched one crewman fight another for a lifejacket. The larger man viciously beat the other to the deck, then ripped the device off his victim's body before jumping into a lifeboat. He looked around for a way to escape the ship, but there was no way he could slip into a lifeboat without being noticed; he'd be tossed overboard like the stowaway he was. 

With a loud groan the ship listed further to starboard, the deck tilting under his feet, making him scrabble for balance, but the deck was too slick and he fell, slamming his head on the boards, sliding towards the open rails. Dazed, he flailed his arms until they connected with something solid, and he grabbed hold. He stopped short of going overboard and pulled on whatever had kept him from going off. It was one of the deck ties used to secure crates above board, and it was still fastened to the toggle. He hauled himself up from the edge and wrapped the tie around his arm, settling by the mooring. 

That was when he heard it, above the wail of the storm; a low, steady thrumming, and it was close. He squinted up into the rain to see the source, and was blinded as a bright searchlight flooded his position on the deck. The Search and Rescue helicopter hovered over him, static from the rotors flashing blue jets of light into the stormy sky. Spike watched as a rope was thrown from the side door and a figure emerged, in uniform, rappelling down to him. He felt a harness secured around his body and he and the rescue worker were pulled back to the chopper.

"You're gonna be okay, buddy. Just stay with me now." 

Blankets were wrapped around him as he was placed into a stretcher berth. His head throbbed and he was painfully cold. The rescue worker gave him a tight smile as the flight paramedic began his assessment. Spike was dazed, but had enough sense to push the medic away when he tried to take his blood pressure.

"Relax, sir, I just need to get a few vitals. I'm not going to hurt you."

"I… I'm fine," Spike muttered, withdrawing from the medic. God knows what they'd do if they found out he was a talking corpse.

The medic sighed, but didn't press the issue. Retrieving some telfa from his kit, he showed Spike the bandage and tried another approach.

"You got quite the whack on the head. Just let me clean it up a little before we get to the hospital, okay? As long as you stay conscious I'll leave you be, but I can't have you bleeding all over the chopper."

The medic's attempt at humour earned a grunt from the rescue worker, but Spike simply shifted forward to allow the man access to his wound.

A hospital would complicate things, but not by much, if he was careful. He had survived the ship, Africa, and the burning lump of desolation that the demon had dumped into his chest. A couple of doctors and nurses should be easy to deal with after that.

Isobelle Jones stared at the clock. _This can't be right, _she thought, blinking at the offending object nailed to the wall in front of her. _It's only one AM. _Tiredly, she turned and surveyed the nearly empty emergency room and sighed. Maybe once and for all man would have the answer to the question 'Is it possible to be bored to death?' She felt close to a breakthrough on that topic as she hopefully scanned the intake board for new charts. Nothing. Damn. She hated the sticks.

The small regional hospital was something all residents had to endure if they ever hoped to crawl up the medical ladder; do well in here; a coveted fellowship might be in your future. Trauma was the prestige award Isobelle wanted, and sticking it out here was a step in that direction. And after tonight, she was done. In eight hours she would hand the reins over to the next eager recruit, and five minutes after that, she'd be headed home. If boredom didn't kill her first.

She made an unnecessary circuit around the treatment area, checking on the two lone patients she had cared for so far, just to keep herself occupied. The nurses would get her if she was needed, but they were pretty self-sufficient and knew patient care protocols better than she did.

Settling into a chair that allowed her to see the whole treatment and triage area, she propped her feet up on a desk and pretended to study, leafing through the latest _CMAJ_. She read the same paragraph on – what the hell was this article about? - four times before she gave up. She had just thrown the journal to the desk when the paramedic working the triage desk handed her a phone-in consult.

"Don't say I never gave you anything," Walter said, handing her the clipboard.

"Finally!" she replied, taking it eagerly. "What's the story?"

"Not a good one. Ship went down in a storm, about 100 kilometres off shore. Most of the crew took to the lifeboats, but this guy got lifted from the deck by S & R."

"Well, that does suck. How many lost?"

Walter shrugged. "Dunno. The survivors who speak English are asking for lawyers, apparently. Cutters picked them up and they all seem relatively fine, so S & R is taking them to the naval base for assessment and investigation."

Isobelle tapped the clipboard with her pen. "And this guy? What's his problem?"

"Air lifted off the deck, possible head injury, but stable enough, they guess, to be dealt with here instead of the city."

"What do you mean by 'They guess'? Either he is or he isn't." Isabelle frowned, looking over the triage consult. S & R medics were consummate pros. She didn't like the sound of them transporting a potential head injury without having done a proper assessment.

"Again, I don't know. I wasn't there. Apparently he's awake and talking and has refused all attempts to even get a set of vitals. They said he wasn't combative…"

"Yet," she said cynically.

"But wasn't keen on being touched."

"So he's all mine." 

"Looks that way." Walter retrieved the report and went to prepare the paperwork. "They land in twenty and I'll direct them to the trauma room."

"Do what you do, Walt. I'll be here, regardless."

Hauling herself out of the chair, she made her way to the back of the ward, toward the trauma room. It was the most private area of the ward and since it was slow in the ER tonight, it was the best place to put a potentially aggressive head injury patient. She went to the sink in the room and ran the cold water. Waiting until it was chilled enough that it numbed her fingers, she cupped some in her hands and splashed it on her face. She peered into the small mirror above the sink. Tired blue eyes reflected back at her, looking deep set due to the dark circles rimmed there against her naturally pale skin. She ran damp fingers through her short dark hair, willing some body back into the lifeless curls that had been such a curse as a child. Turning her attention to the room, she satisfied herself that everything was in its proper place, and settled on a stool to wait for her patient to arrive. Absently, she looked at the clock on the wall. One twenty AM.

Seven hours, forty minutes to go.

They wheeled him into a room at the back, sliding him effortlessly from one stretcher to another. If his head didn't hurt so badly he would have made a show of how embarrassing it was to be carted around like a weakling. Unpleasant memories of his time confined to a wheelchair sprang to mind, his humiliation made worse by the behaviour of his lover and her sire. He endured the attentions of a nurse, while the medics who had brought him in went to speak to the young woman at the foot of the stretcher. She listened intently to their report, casting Spike the occasional glance as one medic brought her up to date.

"You're slipping Darren," she said dryly, signing his transfer log, accepting responsibility for the patient's care. "Since when can't you get so much as a pulse on a patient? Or a name? Maybe it's time to consider that switch to paediatrics." 

The medic raised his hands in mock surrender. "So fire me. Wasn't getting into a fight in the back of a helicopter just to get a set of vitals. If we were luckier, he woulda passed out. But he stayed awake and pretty lucid. Wouldn't give a name. The gash on his head doesn't even look as bad as it did when we picked him up." He accepted his paper work back and shot her a grin. "Consider this a going away present from Search and Rescue."

"Thanks. And I didn't get you anything."

Spike watched the exchange quietly while trying to get the nurse to leave him the hell alone. When she tried a second time to wrap a blood pressure cuff around his arm, he grabbed her wrist and pulled it off his arm. Hot pain ripped through his head as the chip fired, making him dizzy and sick to his stomach. "Just… leave me be," he muttered thickly, cradling his aching head in his hands. Isobelle moved back to the side of the stretcher and quietly signaled the nurse to leave. She did, drawing the curtain behind her, leaving Isobelle to deal with the stranger on her own.

"My name is Isobelle Jones. I'm the doctor on call here tonight. Can you tell me your name?" 

Spike didn't look up. He kept rubbing his temples in a futile effort to make the pain go away. Maybe if he ignored her, she would leave and he could sneak out before they figured out what he was – or more precisely, what he wasn't. A minute passed and the woman hadn't left. She stood there silently, watching him, waiting for an answer.

"I just need a name for the chart," she continued. "If you are going to refuse care, I at least need to know who you are. They said you had no ID on you." 

He still didn't answer. Isobelle tried a different approach.

"Do you remember your name?" she asked gently. "Do you know who you are?"

Spike raised his head from his hands and looked at her. That was a good question. Who was he? Who did that demon drive into his body? William, right? Was he back to that?

__

Dammit, he thought. The simplest of things had become difficult. _Do you know who you are? No. Bloody hell. No, I don't._

"Spike," he answered quietly, his accent thickening his speech. He dipped his head back in his hands. She dutifully recorded his response.

"Is that a nickname?" she asked. "Can you tell me your given name please?"

He sighed. "William." Again she wrote. As an afterthought he added, "Sutton."

A small smile played on her lips. "That's a nice name." She added a few more notes to her chart, then set it aside. Pulling up a stool, she sat next to the stretcher. Spike could tell by the way she settled in beside him that she wasn't going to be leaving anytime soon.

"Mr. Sutton," she began, her voice quiet and gentle, " I really don't care how it is you came to be here tonight. I have no need to know what you were doing on that ship, why you weren't in a lifeboat with the rest of the survivors, or why you are reluctant to accept treatment for your injuries. You have a cut on the back of your head, maybe a concussion, I don't know. And you are obviously in pain. Whatever secret you have, you can keep it. I just want to make sure you are okay."

"I will be," he answered. "I just need some rest and I'll be fine. Give me whatever paper I need to sign to get out of here and you can be off the hook."

Isobelle looked him over. He was soaked to the skin with a mixture of seawater and what smelled like diesel fuel. His hair was long and wild, frosty blond at the ends, warm wavy brown growing out beneath. Even wrapped in a blanket she knew his clothes were torn and dirty, and he was unnaturally pale, as though he hadn't seen the sun in years. He looked like a pathetic wretch, sitting there, dripping on her stretcher, head ducked to avoid her gaze. She was a sucker for the lost ones, which was trouble in her chosen profession. She reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. He raised his head again in acknowledgement. Something inside her jumped as his eyes locked onto hers. He had deep blue eyes, the saddest eyes she'd ever seen. Dark brows accented the paleness of his skin, the one on the left bearing a small scar, quirking the perfection of his angular features.

__

So not the details to be noticing, she admonished herself. She cleared her throat, composing her thoughts.

"Where are you going to go? It's nearly two-thirty in the morning, you have no ID, no money, and you're hurt. So, let's compromise. Stay here, let me clean that cut on your head and in return, I'll get you into a hot shower and dry clothes and you can sleep here tonight. If you're still sure you're all right in the morning, I'll discharge you myself. Deal?"

Spike considered her offer. She was right. Where would he go at this hour? He didn't even know where he was. 

"Promise you'll keep Florence bloody Nightingale away from me? No tests, no machines?"

Success. "I promise. It's a pretty slow night. I will look in on you myself."

"Fine," he replied. Anything to get a little peace.

True to her word, when Spike stepped out of the small shower stall, he found a clean set of blue scrubs, waiting for him on a chair. Dressed, he ran his hands through his wet hair, cursing when he irritated the laceration on the back of his head. Pulling his fingers out of the tangle of hair, he noticed blood was still seeping from the wound. Checking to make sure there was no one else in the locker room, he quickly licked the blood from his fingers and grimaced. How low had he sunk, that he had to do that? This whole thing had not turned out the way he had planned; granted, he got what he was after, his soul back, something he could throw in Buffy's face, removing the last obstacle to her smartening up and admitting she loved him the way he loved her. If she wouldn't join him in the dark, he'd force himself as far into the light as he could and make her choke on his gesture.

Exiting the locker room, he nearly tripped over Isobelle Jones, who was seated on the floor by the doorway.

"Making sure I don't bolt?" he asked flatly, watching her push herself to her feet.

"No, making sure you didn't pass out and go splat in the shower and drown. Wouldn't look good."

They walked back to the trauma room and she had him sit back up on the stretcher. On a table beside her was a dressing and suture tray, open and ready for her use. He scowled at her as she drew up lidocaine in a small syringe.

"You promised to let me fix up that cut," she reminded him. "Can you lie down for me? Just on your side."

He silently complied. He felt her gloved fingers on his hair, moving the damp curls aside to expose the wound. She was good; it hardly hurt at all.

"Wow," she said, "this doesn't look as bad as they thought. It's still going to need about three or four stitches. You okay with me going on?"

"Just do what you need to. Get this done."

She continued, with a minimum of conversation, only warning him before she injected the lidocaine into the wound margins. Cleaned and sutured, she led him out of the treatment area to a small room off the back hallway. It was furnished with a small cot, desk and lamp. 

"This is the on call room. Ignore the stuff at the foot of the bed, it's mine. The sheets are clean and the mattress is pretty comfortable. No one will bother you in here and I'll check on you from time to time." She pointed to the phone. "The extension to the exam area is on the receiver. Call me if you need anything."

She was halfway out the door when Spike's voice pulled her back in.

"Dr. Jones?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks."

She sent him a small smile. "You're welcome."

By six AM Isobelle had all her paperwork done and the ER was empty, except for the mystery man sleeping in her call room. She dutifully checked on him every hour or so, amazed by how dead to the world he was, when asleep. She had actually started to panic the first time she looked in on him, certain that he wasn't breathing, but as she started toward the side of the bed, he stirred in his sleep and curled onto his side. And he had to have been breathing, she reasoned, because more than once she heard him talking in his sleep; about what, she couldn't tell. It must have been nightmares about the ship sinking, causing him to murmur in agitation as he slept.

She stared hard at his chart, at the glaring lack of detail on the H & P and diagnostics sections. Her supervisor would be pissed, considering the potential seriousness of what had brought this patient to the ER. Dropping the chart on the desk she rubbed the fatigue from her eyes and sighed. She could talk her way around her lack of stellar documentation and she knew she had done the best she could to keep this man safe. But, with less than three hours to go before she could say goodbye to this little ER, she started to wonder what Mr. Sutton would do if she kept her word and allowed him to leave. Guilt started to gnaw at her. Maybe she hadn't helped him out at all. 

She made her way once again down the back hall to check on him, when she heard what sounded like an argument coming from the call room. 

"Just bloody well leave me alone!" a now familiar British voice growled. She rounded through the door to see that her patient had backed up to one end of the bed, pressing his back against the wall, yelling at one of the maintenance workers. Her "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door had been ignored and he had entered to clean.

"What's going on?" Isobelle asked, looking from her agitated patient to the cleaner.

"Damned if I know," the worker said defensively. "All I did was come in to empty the trash and this guy is freaking out, talking to people who ain't here. So I go 'Hey, what's the problem?' and he goes ballistic."

"Mr. Sutton? William?" she said, slowly approaching the side of the bed. 

"I can't think… I… I c… can't make them stop talking to me…"

"Do you want me to get security?" the maintenance worker asked, clearly hoping for any excuse to leave.

"No," Isobelle said, with more conviction than she felt. "He just talks in his sleep, I don't think he's quite awake yet. Forget about this, it'll be fine."

Now, left alone with him, Isobelle cautiously sat on the edge of the bed. Her brow furrowed in concern – did she miss a serious injury by not pushing to fully assess him?

"William? Can you hear me?"

"What? Yes, you and all of it… "

"Do you hear voices… other than mine?"

"Yes! I mean, no… no… it's just the past… won't leave me alone…"

Isobelle sat quietly, debating her next move. Spike made it for her.

"Is it morning yet? You said you'd release me in the morning."

"It's a little after six. Are you sure you want to leave? I can do more for you, if you'll let me…"

"I'm not crazy," he said, as calmly as he could. _At least_, _not yet, _he thought bitterly. The soul didn't just burn, it tormented. Flashes of things he had done in the past, cries of his victims – images and sounds ricocheted around his brain. He almost had sympathy for Angel, knowing now what it was like to deal with your conscience after a hundred years.

"I didn't say you were."

"I just have a lot on my mind and I need to get out of here."

Jumping off the bed, he moved past her and gathered his boots off the floor, pulling them on over bare feet.

"Mr. Sutton… William, just hold on a moment… " Isobelle began, placing a light yet restraining hand on his arm.

Lightening quick, Spike's hands shot up and grabbed her arms. Hard. He cringed in pain as the chip fired.

"You…you promised me… " he said hoarsely, through the misery in his head.

The door to the call room opened at that moment and a security guard appeared. The maintenance worker hovered nervously behind him in the hall

"What's going on? Get your hands off her, pal."

"No, there's no problem… " Isobelle began, trying to loosen Spike's grip on her arms.

The guard moved forward and grabbed one of Spike's wrists in an attempt to break his hold on the woman. With a snarl, Spike abruptly released Isobelle and shoved the guard back out the door, crashing him into the maintenance worker. Both fell to the floor in a heap. Spike howled as the chip fired again, then bolted from the room.

Isobelle pounced on the men still sprawled on the floor. "What the hell is wrong with you?!" she yelled. The guard attempted to answer but was cut off as she continued to rage. "I didn't call for help! Things were under control until you… never mind! Just go back to triage and see if he's there. DON'T touch him. Page me if you find him."

Sheepishly, the guard went to do as he was told. Isobelle glared at the cleaner, who also decided that leaving was the best plan. Heading away from the ER, she made her way down the hall, further into the inpatient areas of the facility. Morning staff were just arriving and all seemed as it should. Ducking into the stairwell, she went to the basement. Unshielded fluorescent bulbs lit the halls. She walked carefully, checking every corridor she passed, testing each doorknob to see if any were unlocked. She approached a junction in the hall and stopped to get her bearings. One way led back into the service area of the hospital – laundry, physical plant, sterile processing – the other went to a loading bay. _Well, he wanted to get out of here,_ she thought, moving towards the exit.

The smart thing would have been to call that stupid security guard back and not go into a dark and secluded area of the basement by herself, but Isobelle did not feel threatened by the man she was looking for. Strange as it sounded, even when he had grabbed her, she hadn't felt scared. He'd looked more scared than her. She moved as quietly as she could, not wanting to miss a sound. A cool breeze drifted up the corridor, telling her she was near the outer doors of the bay. Walking a bit further, she saw him as she entered the loading area.

Spike sat with his knees drawn to his chest, resting his head on his folded arms. He was so tired, and his head still throbbed from the incident upstairs. The pain was worth tossing those two idiots to the floor, but he never meant to hurt the woman. She had been nice to him, even when he hadn't made it easy. _Good job, Spike,_ the voice inside – his conscience? – jeered at him, _slap away the one kind hand offered to you…_ He pressed his forehead harder into his arms, trying to drive the ache and voice out of his head. It didn't work. It never worked.

__

Stupid sod, he berated himself, _forgot that_ _'morning equals sun', didn't you?_ Where the hell did he think he was going to go with the sun up?

He sensed someone else had entered the bay, but didn't bolt; he knew it was her.

She joined him, sitting on the cold cement. She waited for him to make the first move.

"Not very smart, coming down here by yourself," he said, head still buried in his arms. There was no harshness, no malice in his tone; Isobelle tamped down the small thrill of nerves that rolled in her stomach. 

"Are you a threat to me?" she asked, keeping her voice neutral.

He chuckled. "Once upon a time…"

"Look," he continued, "sorry about that whole… unpleasantness…"

"Not completely your fault," she replied. "It all could have been handled better." She took notice of the unlocked exit. "You wanted to go. Why are you sitting here? Coulda been long gone before I got here."

"Weather didn't suit me."

"You know," Isobelle began, fatigue allowing her impatience with the whole situation to rise, "I've really tried to be accommodating here, but this whole cryptic thing is getting tiresome. If you really want to leave, there's the door. I'll go back upstairs, tell them you left AMA and spend my last couple of hours here explaining it to my supervisor." She got to her feet and went over to the exit. Surprised at her tone, Spike also rose, taking a few steps in her direction.

"I'll even start you on your way," she added, ramming the lever with her hip, throwing the door open wide. Early morning sunlight streamed through the opening, towards Spike, who jumped back a second too late to avoid contact.

"GODDAMMIT!" Spike bellowed, collapsing in pain as the exposed skin of his right hand and arm started to smolder. Isobelle stared, wide eyed, at the wisps of blue smoke that enveloped him.

"Wha… what the hell… " she stammered, edging her way to the man writhing on the concrete. He was cradling his right arm close to his body, back turned to her. She put her hand on his shoulder to turn him towards her. At her touch, he swung his head around savagely and Isobelle nearly fainted at what she saw.

Spike had tried to keep it contained, but the sunlight and burn pushed what little control he had left to the limit and his gameface appeared, his demon loose and raging. Dropping his blistered arm to his side, he advanced on the woman. 

Isobelle stared at the sight before her. The man's once smooth features were twisted and hard. Ridges appeared on his forehead and sharp teeth jutted from his mouth. But it was his eyes that made her cold; those sad, deep blue eyes that had struck such a feeling of empathy in her earlier had turned to a hot, feral gold and were fixed on her in a way that made her blood curdle.

Snapped out of her shock, she tried to back away, too afraid to turn and run, to take her eyes off whatever he had become. Not being able to see where she was going, she missed the tangle of packing rope that had been dropped onto the bay floor and she tripped, landing hard on her hip and elbow, sprawling on the concrete.

Spike was by her side in an instant, looming over her. Isobelle uttered a small cry, squeezing her eyes closed. 

Nothing happened.

She knew he was there; she didn't hear him move away. Her heart thudded in her chest, and it hurt to breathe. 

"I'm sorry." 

The voice was gentle, a warm British accent flecked with concern. Hesitantly, Isobelle opened her eyes. Distressed blue eyes met hers.

"Get away from me," she said fearfully, trying to scuttle away from him. The rope that had tripped her caught her ankle, keeping her from getting far. Spike stayed put.

"What… what the hell are you?" she asked, taking in the burns on his arm and his now human face. "You… you looked like… "

"A monster," he finished softly. "That's the word you want."

"There's no such thing… "

"Wrong." He leaned a bit closer to her, and she flinched. "I won't hurt you. I can't hurt you…I don't want to…" He pressed his damaged hand to his chest, eyes closed tightly, tears leaking out between thick black lashes. "Why is this so hard?"

Isobelle watched the man cry silently. Her fear fading, she slid up onto her knees, bringing her within reach of him. Misery came off him in waves and the empathy that she had felt for him earlier, returned.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

He choked out a half sob, half laugh. "That's the question. I don't know… don't know anymore. And I did this… I started this, all for…" He shook, trying to regain some control. "And you kept sayin' you could help me. Still think you can?"

Isobelle reached a cautious hand out and brushed the curls from his forehead, tucking stray strands behind his ear, exposing more of his still human face. Unconsciously he leaned into her touch, sighing out another small sob.

"I don't know," she answered, "but I will try."

Spike looked at her, amazed.

Maybe this is what hope felt like.


	2. The Adjustment

Archive: If you like. Just let me know where!

Disclaimer: Joss' toys. Just playing. Don't sue me! I have nothing you want.

Thanks to my wonderful Betas Kristen and Sylvia, who keep me on track, literate and allow for indulging in girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.

~+~

It was late afternoon when Isobelle pulled into her driveway. Home at last. She turned off the ignition and leaned back into the driver's seat with a sigh. She glanced into the rearview mirror and saw only a lumpy blanket and shaded windows. Suppressing a shiver, she turned in her seat to look again. A tangle of frosty blond curls now came into view near the fringe of the blanket.

There was a vampire in her car.

What part of that sentence sounded wrong?

If she hadn't seen him change with her own eyes, she'd have never believed it. Vampires were real and she had willingly brought one home. She definitely needed her head examined. _Read 'Beauty and The Beast' too_ _often as a child,_ she lectured herself. _Shoulda read more Gothic. Developed a healthier sense of fear. _

Explaining the missing patient to her supervisor had not been easy. She hated having to lie to her superior, but knew he would never believe the true story. 

She endured his hour-long lecture, standing there quietly, as he accused her of failing in her professional obligations. She didn't bother defending her actions; it wouldn't have helped her case. Patients walked out of emergency rooms every day without the benefit of care; what happened was not unique, but it did require her to take responsibility for the occurrence. 

She leaned over the seat and cautiously tugged the blanket back. He looked so normal. She had to pay attention to note that he didn't breathe as he slept, his stillness that of a dead man. She touched a finger to his cheek, inwardly intrigued by the chill of his skin… and nearly jumped out of hers when he opened his eyes.

"Damn!" she gasped, jerking her hand away. "You could give some warning before doing that."

Spike sat up, drawing the blanket around his shoulders. "Sorry."

His apology made her feel bad; wasn't his fault. She was the jumpy one. Looking out the windshield, she checked the depth of the shadows that the trees were casting on the pathway to the house. A large porch stretched the length of the home and offered a good deal of shade from the sun. 

"It's not that far to the door, and the walk is pretty shady. Do you think you can make it to the house?"

Spike peeled back a corner of the fabric they had used to cover one of the rear seat windows. "Yeah, shouldn't be a problem."

Isobelle exited the car and readied the house key. Spike ducked his head under the blanket and together they made straight for the covered porch. Isobelle unlocked the heavy wooden door and stepped inside. Spike halted on the threshold; safe from the sun, but unable to go any further. Realizing he wasn't following her, she turned around.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Uh, I can't come in."

"Why not?"

"I wasn't invited." She gave him a confused look. "I can't come in unless you invite me. That's how it works."

She paused, considering his words. He saw the hesitation on her face. _This is_ _her out,_ he thought. Just as well. He could wait until dark and take his leave. He was about to tell her that when she spoke up.

"You mean that's a real thing? The whole invitation deal?"

"Yeah, it's one of the rules. Pesky at times."

"So, I just have to ask you in?"

"Simple as that."

"Well, come in. Will that do?"

Spike took the blanket off and stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind him. Isobelle watched him for a second, then continued down the hallway. Spike surveyed his surroundings. The house was larger than he expected, considering she told him she lived alone. To right of the entry was the living room, which connected farther down to another sitting area. A wooden staircase bracketed the wall on the left, the other side of which was the dining room. At the end of the hallway he could see the kitchen. Tall stacks of mail were sitting on the side table in the hall. He perused the pile, seeing only her name on the envelopes.

"When I said you could come in, I meant all the way into the house," she said, returning to him. She scooped the mail off the table and held it to her chest. Now that he was actually here, she was at a loss for what to do next.

"You really live in this place by yourself?" he asked, venturing further down the hall.

"Well, I have a cat, if that helps you."

Her bit of attitude made him smile. "Not quite what I meant. Seems big for one person."

"It is," she agreed, pushing open the glass French doors to the living room. "Didn't buy it. Inherited it. I grew up here with my grandparents and when they died, well… here I am."

The living room was decorated simply. Dark, rich green paint covered the walls, with the moldings done in cream. A fireplace dominated the outside wall, flanked by overstuffed cream-coloured chairs and with a matching sofa against the inner wall. The theme carried through to the adjoining sitting room, which held a computer desk, a full wall of bookshelving and more overstuffed reading chairs. Isobelle settled on the sofa, mail still in hand. Spike started to take the spot next to her, then thought better of it, going instead to one of the chairs by the fireplace.

"If this is too… inconvenient for you, I can leave when the sun goes down. You're not obliged for anything."

She looked hard at him. He looked - to be honest - ridiculous. Wild two-toned hair, black boots and hospital scrubs. Not a pretty sight.

"No offense, but if you went anywhere in this city looking like that, you'd wind up either back in the hospital or in jail. I said I would help you out, however I could, and I meant it. Like it or not, you've kind of become my responsibility…"

"Like Hell!" he retorted. "I don't need a sodding keeper, you know. I can take care of myself…"

"Hold on there," she interrupted. "I got you out of that hospital, lied to my supervisor, covering for you. Like it or not, I'm in it up to my neck. Besides, you're still in the same position you were last night – no money, no clothes… "

"Okay, okay, I get it. You're right."

"Immediate concerns. Food, clothes…" she said, then checked her watch. "Dammit, I forgot about Miranda."

"Who?"

"My cat," she said, jumping off the sofa. "The kennel closes soon. I guess I can get her tomorrow morning." 

She looked at Spike, another realization coming to her. "Uh, the whole food thing… blood, right?"

He flashed a tight smile. "Blood. But you're safe."

She took that bit of information to heart. "Good to know. Now, where would I…"

"The butchers' where I'm from are very accommodating with that kind of thing. That'd be the place to go."

Isobelle started to turn away when she noticed Spike cradling his burned arm to his chest. She went over and knelt down. "Let me see your arm."

"Don't worry about it. It'll be better in the morning."

She pulled back a bit of the kling wrap, checking the layers of a hastily applied burn dressing. He hissed in pain as a strip of skin slaked off with the gauze.

"Sorry," she said. She dug into her handbag and tipped three ibuprofen tablets into his uninjured hand. "Do pain relievers work on vampires?" she asked. He popped the tablets in his mouth and swallowed. "Won't hurt," he replied.

Standing, she gestured to the staircase. "The bedrooms are upstairs. Choose whichever one you like, except for the yellow room, that's mine. There's a bathroom at the top of the stairs. Get in the shower and soak that dressing off. I'll replace it when I get back."

Without argument he headed up the stairs. Isobelle didn't leave until she heard the water running in the shower. Locking the door behind her, she hoped, for the thousandth time, that this wasn't the stupidest mistake of her life.

~+~

The hot water felt good. Spike stayed in the shower as long as he could. This was a luxury he wasn't about to waste. The dressing she had applied to his arm came off easily under the spray. With mild satisfaction, he noticed the burn was starting to heal. He would need to feed in order to accelerate the process. Putting the scrubs back on, he wrapped a clean towel around the burn and made his way around the second floor of the house. Her bedroom was easy to find, being right across from the bath. Warm buttery yellow walls, dark wood accents, the carpet, soft and inviting under his bare feet. A large sleigh bed cornered off the inner walls, to the right of the door. Armoire, dressers, vanity – the appointments were simple; feminine without being frilly. There were three other bedrooms down the hall, all with double beds and utilitarian furniture, made up, ready and waiting for the houseguests he sensed she didn't often entertain. He chose the room farthest from hers, checking that there were thick curtains on the window and a sturdy lock on the door. 

He wandered through the rest of the house. For an old childhood home it seemed to lack in personal detail. There were few family pictures on the walls. The ones he found were old, most being of a cheery grey couple and a pretty little girl. He studied one image of the girl, knowing by the intense blue eyes that stared out at him that it was Isobelle, not some other forgotten relative. She looked to be about ten years old, her face lit by a huge smile. The girl had her arms thrown around the neck of an impossibly large white dog, her dark Shirley Temple-like curls contrasting with the animal's fur. He wondered what it would take to make her smile like that now.

Distracted by that thought, he pulled his eyes from the picture and continued to look around. He checked the fridge to see if there was anything in there to dull the hunger that was starting to gnaw at his stomach. Nothing. He went through the cupboards one by one, finding only a sack of Hills cat food and a few canned items. 

Spike made his way back to the living room and stretched out on the sofa. The sun was down now, the room dark. The emptiness of the large house sent a strange ripple of apprehension through him. This whole situation was a disruption of his grand plan, of getting back to the damned Slayer. Closing his eyes, he settled into the cushions and let his thoughts drift…

~+~

Spike was walking down a cobblestone street. It was night, rain pattering down on the uneven surface, small rivers splashing under the impact of his boots. It seemed familiar, but he couldn't remember where it was. His gaze shifted down each alley that branched off the deserted street, looking for clues to his whereabouts. Pale gaslight from overhead lanterns leaked from the far corner of one alleyway, drawing Spike into the narrow passage. He made his way slowly, anxiety rising in his chest. Shadows flickered like phantoms against a stained brick wall. The fear was growing stronger, making each step forward an effort, as he fought the dread welling up inside. Then he heard the sounds that went with the shadows – sliding, scuffling, grunting. A sharp cry echoed off the walls, making him freeze in panic. He huddled behind a pile of crates and listened to the struggle continue down the alley.

It became quiet.

Summoning his courage, he crept out from his hiding place. He hesitated, torn between running back to the street or continuing down the alley. Shadows no longer flitted on the brick wall. The smell of blood, hot and metallic, filled the air. The rain absorbed the heady scent and soaked him with it through to his skin. Steeling himself, he went further into the dark passage, approaching the corner where - whatever - struggle had taken place.

It was horrible.

The bodies of two young adults, a man and a woman, were thrown over piles of refuse. Their throats were ripped open, blood and shredded muscle dark red against their drained flesh. He gaped at the sight. He'd seen this before. He'd been here before. Vienna. Early 1900s. He knew this because he had done this. He crashed to his knees, his stomach heaving, as memories rolled back into his brain. He pressed his head to the wet alley floor and willed the sights and smells away. Would this ever stop?

"You did this to us."

Spike whipped his head up, staring in fright as the body of the mutilated man stood over him, dripping blood and filthy rainwater. 

"You took our lives. Our futures. Our destinies away from us. You are an evil, remorseless creature who preyed on the weak and the innocent. You don't deserve that soul. It's damned for what you have done. Burn in Hell, monster. You and all you ever hold dear."

"No!" Spike choked, waking with a start.

It was just a dream. Another in a long string of nightmares that he'd endured since Africa. 

It took him a minute to remember where he was; the dream had been so vivid that he imagined he could still feel the chilled raindrops running over his skin. It made him shiver.

The sound of a key in the door pulled his attention back to the present. Spike pushed himself up off the sofa and went to the hall, just in time to see Isobelle plow through the door, hands full, with bags from many different shops.

"Little help?" she asked, letting her handbag slide from under her arm to the floor. Spike gathered some of the load and followed her into the kitchen. It took another trip to the car to deliver all the packages to the house.

"Well, I have to say, going to a butcher and asking for blood? That's a first," she said, settling into a chair around the island. Spike took a seat across from her. "But what I didn't expect was being asked if I preferred cow's blood or pig's blood." She pulled four one-litre containers from a brown bag. "Uh, I didn't know, so I got both." 

Conscious of her attention, he made quick work of preparing his meal. Isobelle was only mildly surprised when he didn't ask where things were kept in her kitchen. He had apparently made himself at home while she was out.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

The hum of the microwave filled the silence between them. Isobelle started sorting the groceries while he waited for the blood to heat. He noticed her jump when the timer beeped. He retrieved the mug and swirled the red liquid inside. Feeding on animal blood had not kept him from craving human blood. These days, the chip prevented him from hunting, but the urge to do so had remained. Until now. The soul had ground out that last desire. He inhaled the scented steam. He brought the mug to his lips, casting her a glance over the rim, feeling a little guilty at the grim look of fascination she wore, watching him drink. Hungry as he was, he tried not to drain the mug in one swallow. 

Supplies away, Isobelle retrieved a set of clothing store bags from the floor and set them in front of her houseguest.

"The nurses tried to launder your clothes, but they disintegrated in the washer. We had nothing to replace them with, so I picked up a few things. I hope the sizes are okay. They can be exchanged if they don't fit."

Spike opened the first bag she handed him. Two pairs of jeans, one black, one dark blue, and a belt. The other bags contained a selection of T-shirts, tanks, and button downs. With some pride, she pulled out a dark, cobalt blue button down shirt, piling it on top of the rest. "I thought this was your colour. Couldn't resist."

"I don't know what to say… this wasn't necessary…" he fumbled out, overwhelmed, self-conscious in the light of her generosity.

"I have to disagree," she replied, casting a glance at the rumpled scrubs. "Blue may be your colour, but you can't make do in those. Besides, we ruined what was left of your stuff." She folded the clothes and set them back in their bags. "Now, if you're done… eating, let me re-dress that burn."

Spike followed Isobelle back up to the bathroom. He watched her carefully cleanse the damaged skin, apply antibacterial ointment and wrap it with gauze. 

"Can I ask you a couple of questions?" he asked. 

She glanced up from her task. "Sure."

"They may seem… strange."

She sent him a wry grin. "I just rescued - and invited into my home - a wayward vampire, who nearly sank in a shipwreck less than twenty four hours ago. I had to buy blood from a butcher who didn't blink at the request, not to mention trying to decide between boxers or briefs for a man I don't know. Strange is a given in this situation."

"Good point." He cleared his throat, wondering where to begin. "Where am I, exactly?"

"Aside from my bathroom? Where were you aiming for?"

"California."

"Sorry. Wrong country, wrong coast."

"Canada? No wonder you're so helpful."

She smirked, nearly done wrapping his wound. "Next question."

"What's the date?"

"Tomorrow is the first of June."

He thought about that. More than three weeks had passed since… his eyes darted around the bathroom, chest tightening with memory of the Slayer, pinned to the tile floor, crying…

He bolted off the edge of the tub where he'd been sitting, nearly knocking Isobelle over and quickly exited the room. She sat back on her heels, momentarily stunned by his actions. She watched him escape down the hallway, stopping at the farthest bedroom door. He slumped against the wall and slid to the floor.

She carefully approached, kneeling near him on the floor. "Was it something I said?"

He shook his head. "No. I thought it was longer. Feels like it's been forever."

"Forever since what?"

Spike looked at the woman next to him. Intense blue eyes met his. He managed an apologetic smile, reaching out with his uninjured hand and resting it on her shoulder. She didn't flinch at his touch.

"Isn't important right now. I'm just tired."

Isobelle checked her watch. It was after nine. She'd been up for over a day. 

"Why don't you get some rest. We can talk more in the morning."

Climbing to her feet, she turned down the hall towards her own room.

"Isobelle?"

She turned back at the sound of Spike's voice.

"Yes?"

"I meant it, you're safe with me here. But, if it makes you feel better, crosses work."

She quickly thought about her grandmother's rosary, tucked away in her jewelry box. She sent him a small smile. "Good night, Spike."

~+~

Somewhere in the house a clock started to chime – one, two, three, four – four resonant bells echoed through the dark halls. Isobelle tossed under the covers, woken again from a fitful sleep by the sound. Keyed up by the strange events of the past day, she had found it hard to relax, every little noise making her start. Sleep eluded her and was not restful when it came. Rubbing her eyes, she slipped out of bed. If she couldn't sleep, then she would study. She was in the hall before she realized how she was dressed – padding around in the middle of the night wearing a tank top and briefs wasn't appropriate with her houseguest down the hall. She would have to be quick.

Retrieving a textbook from downstairs, she headed back to bed, pausing when she heard noises at the end of the hall. She stood quietly in the dark and listened. Was he talking in his sleep again? She crept down the hall, closer to his door. 

"No, no more, please… " she heard him moan. She could hear thrashing through the door. A choked cry followed the pleas. She put her hand on the doorknob and twisted. It was locked. She debated whether to just go back to her room or to try to intervene. Her decision was made when a low keening began on the other side of the door. It was a pitiful sound, making her heart drop into her stomach. Retrieving a pen from the hall table, she popped the lock from her side of the knob, opening the door.

The curtains had been tightly closed to block out the sun when it rose. The closet light had been left on and filtered through the gaps in the doorframe, to dimly illuminate the room. Spike was curled in the centre of the bed, a sheet the only piece of linen not kicked off onto the floor. It twisted around his nude body at the waist, leaving the rest of him open and exposed. Isobelle took the time to really look at him. Her stomach lurched as she noticed old wounds on his chest and another nearly healed burn on his right bicep. He trembled in his sleep, fingers worrying the edge of the sheet as he clutched it close. Sad, unintelligible sounds slipped from his lips. Moving to the side of the bed, she took the sheet in hand and tried to disentangle it from his body.

"You're okay," she whispered, smoothing the sheet back over him. He stilled momentarily, hearing her voice. Tentatively, she reached a hand out to brush the hair back off his forehead, making him sigh. He felt cool under her fingertips, but his face was damp. Was it warm in here? A small tear trickled down his cheek. No. He had been crying in his sleep, real tears wetting his cheek and pillow. Isobelle sat on the edge of the bed, leaning forward to wipe them away. At her touch, he reached out, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her down next to him. She stifled a yelp, panic rolling through her. Spike held her tightly against him, only the sheet between them. He buried his head in her chest and she could feel the tears starting again, cold and relentless, through to her skin. She knew by the mournful mutterings that he was still asleep, still stuck in whatever nightmare was playing out in his mind.

'Pl… pl… please… " Spike begged. "No more, I… I'm so… sor… sorry… "

She let herself relax into him, resting her chin on his head.

"Don't leave me… don't leave me… "

"Shhh," she soothed, trailing her free hand over his back. "It's just a bad dream. It isn't real."

~+~

Spike was pinned to the dirty floor of the subway car, Nikki, a heavy weight on his chest. Blow after blow from her fists connected with his face. A hateful grin twisted the Slayer's mouth, her cloudy dead eyes radiating glee. Spike tried to get up, push her off, only to be slammed back down by her punches. The jerking of the moving car rattled his bruised body against the hard floor. Over the screeching of wheels on the rails, he heard someone laughing. From the corner of his eye he saw Buffy, sitting in one of the seats, watching the fallen Slayer beat Spike to a pulp.

"No, no more, please… " he begged, trying to get Buffy's help.

"Oh c'mon, Spike. You can take it. You deserve it." Buffy slid out of the seat and stood over him. Nikki delivered a backhand to his jaw, snapping his head to the side. His blood dripped onto the subway car floor. 

"This is foreplay for you, right? We did more damage to each other when we were screwing. The harder I hit, the hotter you got, remember?" She crouched over him, stopping the next punch Nikki threw. "Maybe she likes you," she said, smiling brightly. "Or maybe she knows what you did to me, tried to do to me. You're a bad vampire. I stopped you. Now it's her turn."

Nikki continued her assault. Spike lost count of how many times she hit him. The dead Slayer never stopped grinning. Buffy leaned against a pole, again watching the onslaught.

"Pl…pl…please, no more…I…I'm so…sor…sorry."

Buffy sighed, pushing herself off the pole and returned to hover over Spike. 

"Be as sorry as you like. You're still worthless. Why I ever wasted my time with a pathetic loser like you…"

Buffy reached behind her and pulled out a stake. She tossed it to Nikki. "Bye bye, Spike. Have a nice dusting." Buffy started walking away. Through swollen eyes, Spike looked in terror at the Slayer on top of him.

"Don't leave me… don't leave me… " he begged. 

"I can't leave. I was never there," Buffy said. Then she was gone.

Nikki clutched the stake in both hands, holding it high over her head. Spike stared at the whittled point, frozen. With a hard yell, Nikki brought the stake down to his chest…

~+~

"Shh," he heard someone say. The subway car faded around him. The cold hard floor was gone, the shrieking of metal on metal replaced by silence. Wherever he was, it was soft, warm. Someone held him close, a comforting hand on his back. "It's just a bad dream. It isn't real."

Spike could still feel tears spilling down his face. He pressed deeper into the soothing embrace, the heaviness of sleep never lifting, drifting back into a blessedly dreamless nothing. 

~+~


	3. Insight

Archive: If you like. Just let me know where!

Disclaimer: Joss' toys. Just playing. Don't sue me! I have nothing you want.

Thanks to my wonderful Betas Kristen and Sylvia, who keep me on track, literate and allow for indulging in girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.

~+~

Spike rolled over, stretching out across the bed. Casting an eye to the alarm clock, he saw that it was late, nearly nine PM. Lying there a moment, he sighed in relief. Another day without a nightmare. That made three in a row so far.

It had been humiliating last week, waking up to find himself clinging to the stranger who had so decently taken him into her home. The dream. He had remembered it all – Nikki beating him down, Buffy walking away as the dead Slayer sent the stake towards his chest – and then, it had faded away, the cold fear replaced by warmth and security. He was safe. In her sleep, Isobelle had curled around him, becoming his comfort. Her T-shirt had been damp under his cheek, still wet from his tears. He had left her sleeping there that morning, retreating to the kitchen to wait out the embarrassment of discussing the incident with her.

When Isobelle finally joined him, she didn't mention what had taken place, nor did she avoid him. She sat next to him at the island, sipping coffee and sifting through the mail, asking what he needed to do that day. It was another example of her generous spirit.

A loud scratching drew his attention to the bedroom door. Pulling on his pants, he opened it a crack. Miranda butted it open the rest of the way and stalked into the room with a miaow. She wove herself around Spike's calves, her tortoiseshell fur sticking to the black fabric. Leaning down, he ruffled the back of her neck. She purred, green eyes blinking at him.

"C'mon then, supper time."

The cat followed Spike's heels closely all the way to the kitchen, chattering the whole time at the mention of supper. After putting his own meal in the microwave to heat, he filled Miranda's dish.

"Doesn't look too appetizing," he commented, watching the cat sniff the kibble. Rooting through the refrigerator, he found some chicken. Miranda jumped to the counter, eagerly taking the treat from Spike's hand.

"Don't tell your mistress." 

"Don't tell me what?"

Miranda vacated the counter at the sound of Isobelle's voice, taking off up the stairs. Spike broke the rest of the meat into the cat's dish, then retrieved his mug from the microwave.

"You're gonna spoil her," she admonished, dropping her gym bag by the back door. Spike got her a bottle of water and they sat at the island. Isobelle twisted uncomfortably on the hard chair. She rubbed a spot on her hip, groaning slightly.

"Those university girls really know how to kick," she said, shifting off the sore side. "Half of them don't need to take a self-defense class."

"You were taking a class? Is that why you're so late?" Spike asked, concern colouring his voice. Seeing her in pain bothered him. 

"Not taking. Helping out a friend. We used to teach sessions together a long time ago. Kept it up during university. Looked great on the med school application, but I doubt I could kick my way out of a wet paper sack today. This little blonde thing half my size dropped me like a bag of cement, right on my butt."

Spike cast his eyes to the area in question, then quickly looked away. _None of_ _that, _he chastised. 

"Never figured you for the sparring sort," he said, hoping she hadn't noticed his wayward glance.

"Not so much with the trading blows than the 'kick him in the head, get away' school of self-protection." She swirled her water bottle around, watching the mini water funnel churn inside. "So," she continued. "How was your sleep?"

Spike set his mug down. "Good."

Isobelle studied him for a moment. A lot had occurred in the past week. She had come home from work one day to find a completely different person waiting for her. The nest-like two-toned hair had been subtly trimmed and bleached. Dressed in something other than the rumpled blues, her houseguest had cut a neat and attractive figure in black jeans and a T-shirt. His burn had healed completely, as had the other injuries she had seen on his body, all without scarring his pale, delicate skin.

"Really?" she prodded. "Not even…"

"Not a one."

She smiled at him. "I'm glad."

And she was glad. Thinking about that morning - after witnessing the night terror - she still wasn't sure what troubled him the most: the dream or his reaction to it. After waking alone in his bed, she had pulled herself together and found him hunched over the breakfast island. She had felt his self-consciousness; it had matched hers. Not wanting to make an awkward situation worse, she had let the matter go. It was something they could talk over another time. No harm had been done, except for maybe bruising his ego.

Spike stood and rinsed his mug in the sink before putting it in the dishwasher. Feeling for the set of keys in his pocket, he turned to Isobelle.

"I'm going out for awhile. Getting the whole 'day/night' thing sorted out. Walk might do me good." He went to the back door, then glanced back over to Isobelle. 

"You… want to join me?"

She considered the invitation, but the now throbbing pain in her hip made her decline.

"Not tonight. I have some stuff to do here. Go on, it's a nice night. I won't wait up."

With a nod he left, locking the door behind him. Stiffly, Isobelle got up from the chair and walked to the sitting room. It served as a reading room/office and it was where her computer was set up. Easing into her chair, she called up the desktop files. Selecting one titled "V1", she clicked it open. Numerous folders appeared on the screen, all containing information she had found on the Internet about vampires.

She scrolled through article after article. Most were about vampire demonology and included all the tips and tricks to avoid becoming one of their victims. History, rumour, myth, folklore – it all ran together, making it difficult to determine what was relatively factual and what was fiction. She had even stumbled across some site, based in the States, which claimed the US DOD had experimented on vampires and demons. Very X-File-ish, but she had saved it anyway; it was the only site that claimed to have any information on vampire physiology. Spike's healing abilities amazed the scientist in her and she wanted to know more about how it worked. How he worked.

After an hour, she closed her files and headed for the shower. She hadn't learned anything new. What she had discovered from all her research was this; compared to what was known about vampires, Spike didn't seem to be your typical creature of the night.

The hot water relaxed her sore muscles. Checking out her injury, she was chagrined to see a large, dark bruise over the fair skin on her left hip. _Be feeling that one for awhile,_ she thought. Toweling off, she climbed into her nightshirt and prepared for bed. Miranda padded down the hall and into the bathroom, rubbing against her mistress' legs with a loud purr.

"Suck up," Isobelle scolded softly. "Won't work with me. No more chicken for you."

Miranda miaowed once, then preceded her owner to the bedroom, claiming the very centre of the queen size bed for herself. Sighing, Isobelle fit herself in under the sheets, and turned out the light. She fell asleep, thoughts of Spike and vampires still weaving through her mind.

~+~

Spike left the bar around one AM, before the patrons around the pool table lost their good humour over his 'incredible' lucky streak. A couple of hundred dollars that had once belonged to his opponents was shoved in his pocket. He'd won it honestly; Spike was a sharp, but not a hustler. He beat each eager loser fairly. It made winning all the more satisfying.

This wasn't a bad little city. A bit bigger than Sunnydale, there were lots of clubs and bars that creatures of the night could frequent. He had his suspicions confirmed, that he wasn't the only demon around, when Isobelle had mentioned how easy it was to buy blood from the butcher. The large port and dockyards provided easy admission to the city - lots of nasties could slip in undetected from cargo vessels. 

The crowds on the street began to thin as it got later. As Spike made his way from downtown to the residential area, it became close to deserted. He discovered a lovely thing about the walk; it led to a shortcut, through a huge graveyard, back to Isobelle's. He was the only one on the street when he reached the cemetery gates. He slipped through them easily, the chain locking them together incredibly slack. It was odd how the gravestones comforted him, the cemetery itself a respite from the hell his unlife had become in the past few months. 

He read the headstones as he walked. Most of them were old, commemorating people who had died before William had even been born. There were several family plots with good British names like Keith, Windsor, Howe and MacDonald. There were even more, marked only by tiny white crosses. Infants' graves. Those made him pause. He blinked hard, long-forgotten memories of hunts and kills trying to push to the surface. He willed them to stay buried. Angelus had always liked the small ones, and there was a time that Spike had eagerly played along with his grandsire's games in order to keep in his favour. 

Spike moved on, deeper into the cemetery. More recent markers dotted the landscape near the centre of the graveyard. Seeing freshly turned dirt, Spike went to the grave. He looked closely at the wet earth. Crouching down, he ran a hand over the soil. Listened hard. 

Nothing. 

__

Idiot, he chastised. _Were you hoping someone was home? _He straightened up and brushed the dirt from his hands. The last thing he needed was to run into… _what the hell? _

Twenty metres away, tucked against the trunk of a chestnut tree, he saw them. A young couple - looking for privacy - going at it like they were the only ones around. Only they weren't as alone as they thought. Two vamps, in full stalker mode, bore down on the lovers. 

"Goddammit," he mumbled. "Careful what you look for, Spikey boy." Scanning for a weapon, he noticed a shovel that had been forgotten near the new grave. Picking it up, he silently made his way towards the vamps and their meal.

Either he was stealthier than he thought, or the vamps were too focused on dinner, because he was only a few paces from them when they set upon the couple, seemingly unaware of Spike's presence. The larger of the two vampires grabbed the boyfriend by his collar and hauled him off his date. The girl started to scream as the other vamp made his move on her. Spike raised the shovel high and slammed it into the back of the larger vampire's head, crashing him to the ground.

"Now, now, boys. I don't think they wanted to be disturbed."

The vamp sprawled in the dirt glared up at him. "Who the fuck are you, man?"

Spike smiled. "Just a bloke lookin' for a pool to piss in."

The smaller vamp twitched, hovering off to the side, still holding tightly to his prize. The girl had stopped screaming, her terrified eyes flying between her date, laid out on the ground and Spike. Spike gave the fallen vamp a hard kick in the ribs, rolling him away from the boyfriend. The man scrabbled to his feet, standing there, unsure of what to do.

Spike's opponent sprang to his feet with a growl and charged. Again, Spike swung hard with the shovel, catching the vamp broadside, with enough force to snap the wooden handle mid-shaft and send the metal trowel end flying. 

"Need to work on your approach, mate," Spike goaded, easily ducking the right cross aimed at his head. "Lacks poetry. You're heart isn't in it. Need to _love_what you do." More punches flew harmlessly by. The twitchy vamp finally surrendered his victim and went to his partner's aid. Unseen by Spike, Twitchy landed a hard kick to his back. Spike stumbled forward, knocking into the larger vamp, sending him back to the ground, unmoving. 

"Sorry Bert," Twitchy moaned. Regaining his balance, Spike pivoted around and caught him under the chin with the end of the handle.

"Now THAT'S more like it!" Spike enthused. With a grin, he twirled the handle in his fingers like a staff. Twitchy tried to avoid the sharp wooden end, squealing when Spike used it to rain blow after blow on his body. Twitchy didn't put up much of a fight - or much of a defense. With every _thwack_ of the staff, Spike pulled a little more of the vamp apart, leaving him a whining bloody mess.

"Well, this is getting boring," Spike sighed. He had backed Twitchy up against the tree the lovers had been using. "Say goodnight." With one thrust he staked the vamp, using so much force that the handle became embedded in the tree trunk. A cloud of dank dust burst through the air, tumbling to the earth with a hiss. He turned in time to see the other vamp stagger to his feet and run off. "Sissy," he mumbled. His attention fell on the couple, huddled behind a large statue. "You can get up now. It's over," He walked to their hiding spot. "You should be more careful where you…"

Spike never finished the sentence. The boyfriend had found the trowel end of the shovel and swung it towards Spike's temple, hitting him hard, dropping him to the earth. Spike lay there stunned as the couple took off. Minutes passed as he fought the dizziness that kept him down. Easing to his elbows, he groaned. Nausea rippled through him as he hefted himself into a sitting position. Goddamn humans. He had been on their side. Gingerly, he probed the wound. He felt a gash on his left temple, not too far from the scar in his eyebrow. He felt something else, too. Bugger it all. Forehead ridges. He had vamped out during the fight and didn't even realize it. No wonder they'd dropped him and run away.

He got unsteadily to his feet and continued back to Isobelle's. Whatever thrill or satisfaction he had gotten from the fight faded fast. Dejected, he walked quickly, looking out for the demon dangers he now knew lurked in the city. It wasn't fair. The fractured, burning soul that sat inside him had pushed him to help and he had. And where had it gotten him? Beaten down, in spite of his assistance. He had staked one useless vamp good and proper and enjoyed that somewhat, but his partner had escaped. No doubt he'd tell his pals about a new rogue vamp in town, monitoring the lunch line, mucking up their fun. Soon all the other dark forces here would know to watch out for him. He'd be a target. Christ, it was just like Sunnydale all over again. But this time, there was no Slayer for reluctant backup. And the soul. It made everything feel – more, just more. It complicated things. Again, he couldn't be a monster, and the soul had yet to help him be a man. 

With each step he took, his spirits sank lower. Fear frayed his thoughts. Maybe this is what it was going to be like. Forever. It would never get better, never get easier. How long was it that his bastard grandsire moped and moaned after his curse? Decades? He didn't have that kind of time; what he wanted wouldn't wait. Great, another one of his faults – impatience. _Give her what she deserves, what a bloody joke._ It was a joke – just on him. He wanted the soul back to gain love and acceptance, but it had made him more of an outsider than ever. He had turned himself into something to be rejected by both humanity and darkness. 

He had never felt so alone.

~+~

Isobelle woke to find Spike sitting on the side of her bed. His eyes were barely visible in the low light of the room and they were fixed on her. 

"Spike?" she asked sleepily, pushing herself up into a sitting position against the headboard. Even in the dimness she noticed the wound on his head. Carefully she touched his temple. It wasn't bleeding. "Are you okay? Who did this to you?"

Spike removed her hand and held it between his. It felt hot and soft in his own cool palms.

"Spike, tell me what's wrong."

He thought that over for a minute. 

"Do you know what I am?" he asked.

His question was unexpected. She didn't know what to say. He was a vampire; he had told her that. But there was something more, something underneath it all she couldn't identify. All the research she had done on vampires and darkness had so far been unable to fully explain Spike. He was different. She could feel it. She had nothing except her intuition to go on; whatever set him apart from the vampire paradigm, it was deep and substantial. It was something he was holding close. The importance of this, the obvious agony of it, was what urged her to help him. 

She shook her head. "No," she said honestly.

"_That_ is the problem." Spike's voice was low, harsh. "I don't know either."

"I don't understand." 

"We are memory. It's all memory, innit? What you are, who you are, created and passed on, by record of word, thought and deed. Your prize to build on, or your curse to live down. But when you change, when you try to be different, it is still there. You are no longer the same inside, no longer the legacy you've begotten, but that doesn't seem to change what you are _seen_ as. When that happens, then, you're nothing. You've stopped… _being_," he choked out the last word, emotion thickening his voice.

"What are you talking about?"

"Those… dreams," he continued, leaving her bed to pace around the room, "the ones that I've been having, they're reminders from the past, of things I have done. Bad things. Evil acts." He ran his hands through his short blonde hair, mussing it to loose curls. "Evil is what I was. I _lived_ it. Reveled in it. It's what I was created for. They come back to me now, those memories, those acts, and they torment. Make me remember what I was, what I was meant to stay, what I will forever pay for…" 

He turned back to her, eyes narrowed. Isobelle shivered slightly under the intense gaze. He dropped to his knees at the side of the bed, grabbing her hands tightly in his.

"What do you see when you look at me?" 

She didn't know what to say, or what answer would appease him. But staying silent would surely make things worse.

"I see a man…"

"Wrong, wrong, wrong," he moaned, sinking his forehead to the knot of hands between them. "I'm not a man, I can never be that again…"

"Spike, you asked what I see when I look at you. And that is what you have shown me so far."

"You've seen more. You've barely glimpsed the worst of it, but you've had a taste."

"I've seen a different face. We all have different sides to us, Spike. We aren't meant to be just one thing. Humanity, it's not black or white. It's a balance. We - ultimately - are the ones who choose what we project to the world."

Spike listened but didn't reply. He had no response to offer. He couldn't expect her to understand. 

"Spike," she continued. "If there is no humanity in you, if you deny the man inside, you will never be able to answer your question."

"You have no clue what's inside me," he mumbled. Red-rimmed, tearless eyes found hers.

"You're right, I don't. But I am willing to put in the time to find out." She cleared her throat. "You should, too. I don't think a vampire would be this moody and self-reflective at three in the morning unless he truly…" she stopped, a random thought entering her mind. _Oh my God. Was that the difference? _

"What?" Spike asked.

She searched his eyes, the stray thought crystallizing in her consciousness. Was she remembering correctly?

"Come on, let's take this downstairs. For some reason I suddenly want hot chocolate."

Giving her a forlorn smile, Spike released her hands and moved from the side of the bed. He turned his back as she slid into her robe, looking at her only when she threaded her arm through his.

"You wouldn't happen to have any of those little marshmallows, would you?" he asked, as they left her room.

~+~

Isobelle stifled a yawn. It was six thirty in the morning. She and Spike had talked for nearly three hours. He'd told her about the incident in the graveyard; she could understand how that had set him off. He had also told her about the microchip in his brain and how it had gotten there. Thinking back to when she first met him in the ER, she remembered instances where his chip had obviously fired; no wonder he had been adamant about no x-rays. 

Despite her prodding, he had revealed little about his past. She didn't push for more. He would tell her what he wanted her to know in his own time, when he was ready. That made her pause; he had been with her for a week, so far, and she hadn't even considered that he might move on soon. Odder still, she wasn't sure how she felt about the idea that he might not be with her much longer.

Sitting at the computer, she quietly sorted through her research files, hunting for one small reference she remembered skimming the night before. She glanced over her shoulder, through the doorway that separated the living room from the sitting room. Spike was asleep on the sofa, Miranda curled on his chest.

"No, no, no," she whispered to herself, clicking through article after article. All the same information – vampire, soulless demon inhabiting the victim's body, victim's memories intact, so on, and so on…

"There you are," she muttered. She opened a small file, which only had a paragraph of text:

SOUL RESTORATION

Anecdotal evidence has been compiled on cases

where the soul of vampyre or other daemon has

been restored to the victim's body. While there has

been no direct evidence of this phenomenon, the last

rumoured soul restoration occurred in the late 19th

Century in Romania, as a punishment to the vampyre

for his crimes. No credible records have been found confirming

this restoration. The return of the soul was viewed as a

curse, meant to torment the daemon by returning the seat

of his conscience and humanity. The purpose of this was

to visit guilt upon the wrongdoer, to cause the daemon his

due of eternal suffering and walking damnation.

__

Isobelle closed the file. Her hands were shaking. Could this be what was causing Spike's nightmares? She'd sensed there was something more to him than what the standard vampire lore was providing, but from what she could tell, this was monumental. Did someone curse him with the return of his soul? There was so much she needed to learn from him. He seemed to have no one. She was equally alone, her career filling the void that a family never had.

A low growl caught her attention. She left the computer and padded on bare feet to the living room. Miranda's tail twitched. The cat growled again, then slipped off Spike's chest and left the room. Isobelle knelt on the floor, leaning against the arm of the sofa, near Spike's head. His brow furrowed in his sleep, lips moving to silent words. He stiffened slightly, catching an unneeded breath in his throat. He was having another nightmare. Nestling her head near his shoulder, she moved one hand up to hold his. Reflexively, his fingers laced with hers and held them tight. 

Maybe this one wouldn't be too bad. 

~+~


	4. Careless

Archive: If you like. Just let me know where!

Disclaimer: Joss' toys. Just playing. Don't sue me! I have nothing you want.

Thanks to my wonderful Betas Kristen and Sylvia, who keep me on track, literate and allow for indulging in girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.

~+~

Spike jumped the fence that surrounded Isobelle's back yard, his boots hitting the grass with a muffled thud. He swore under his breath as pain lanced through his right leg. Ignoring the blood that dripped down his calf, he concentrated on making it inside the house. He limped up the porch stairs, wincing as the boards creaked under his weight. He hoped she wasn't up yet. He didn't want Isobelle to see him like this.

He slunk through the dark house up to the bathroom. He wedged a towel under the door, hoping it would muffle the sound of the shower and not wake the woman in the next room. He stripped down, dropping torn, slime-and-blood-smeared clothes onto the tile floor. "For fuck's sake," he hissed, examining the gash near his knee. A five-centimetre strip of flesh had been ripped away. Strap-like bruises spiraled around the rest of his leg, where the greasy tentacle of - whatever the hell it had been - had grabbed hold. 

He hadn't gone out spoiling for a fight; all he'd wanted was a quiet stroll on the docks. The fight had come to him. Word of the graveyard incident had worked its way through the demon community. It was the second time this week Spike had had to fend off an attacker; saving the lovers had been the right thing to do, but he was being made to pay for it with his blood and skin.

Spike stepped into the shower, letting the hot water dissolve the blood and grime away. When the last pink-stained drops had been sucked down the drain, he dried off, gathered the soiled towels and shoved them down to the bottom of the hamper. He hid his ruined clothes in his closet. He would deal with them when Isobelle was out of the house.

Dressing in his room, Spike noticed a warm yellow glow glinting through a gap in the curtains. The sun was rising. It was later than he'd thought. Checking the bedside clock, he saw it was nearly six AM. He had been so preoccupied with not waking her that he forgot she needed to be up by now, anyway.

He knocked on her door with a few gentle raps, to stir her. He leaned into the frame and listened. He heard breathing, the rustle of bed linen, but nothing more. He knocked again, waiting a moment before going in.

"Hello?" Spike said softly. He hesitated in the doorway. Slipping into her room while she slept seemed like trespassing. There were some boundaries, a few decencies, which Spike strove to respect within the closeness and emotional intimacy of their relationship. Respecting her privacy was one he didn't want to cross. 

He went to the side of the bed. Isobelle was nestled under a thick duvet, one leg curled delicately over the top of the cover. A blemish on the pale skin of her calf caught his attention. Leaning in closer, he saw a tattoo, just above her right ankle. A small caduceus, with the year 1996 beneath it, marked her. The tattoo surprised him; he hadn't thought her the type. Pulling his eyes from her leg, he tapped the sleeping woman's shoulder. Isobelle squirmed and sank deeper under the covers. 

"Isobelle? Wake up. You're going to be late."

"Mmm, five more minutes," she mumbled into the pillow.

Spike tugged back the duvet and tossed it to the foot of the bed. "You don't have five more minutes. It's almost six o'clock. Your alarm didn't ring. You have to get up _now_."

Isobelle opened a tired eye and focused on the clock on her bedside table. Red numerals glowed mockingly at her: 5:52 AM.

"Oh dammit, I'm late," she groaned. 

"That's what I said," Spike commented as Isobelle dragged herself out of bed. Unsteady on her feet and still half-asleep, she headed for the shower. Spike stepped out of her way, casting his eyes down. An old pair of cutoff sweatpants and a tank top served as her sleepwear. Not the most attractive set of clothes, but they fit close to her curves, detailing the softness of her body. Recently, Spike had been noticing small things like that about her. The fit of her clothes, the lightness of her voice when she talked to her cat, the way she always burned her fingers trying to wring out her teabag… little elements of her that would stick in his brain, keeping her in his thoughts longer than he felt was appropriate. 

Hastily pulling the comforter back over the bed, he left her room and headed down the stairs. Steam leaked from under the bathroom door, and Spike drew in a deep breath. Vanilla, from her body wash. Another element to file away in his mind. 

He was sipping a bedtime snack when Isobelle blew through the kitchen, towards the laundry room. Her hair was damp, making her usually loose curls springy and wild. The barest hint of eyeliner had been applied. A backpack was slung over one shoulder, her lab coat threaded through the strap. In her free hand she carried a laundry sack, which he heard dropped on the floor with a wet thud.

"There were no towels in the bathroom," she said flatly, returning to the kitchen.

"Were none or are none?" Spike asked. He couldn't remember if he had used them all, cleaning up the blood from his wound. He shouldn't have asked. She looked mad.

"Were. Are. Both," she replied testily. "No, wait, I take that back. There was one towel. One wet one, on the floor."

"Oh, sorry…" he began, but she cut him off.

"Don't be sorry, just be more helpful. Throw that load of laundry in at least." She spoke quickly as she searched the kitchen for her watch. Finding it, she slipped it on and headed for the door. "I'm so screwed," she muttered. Not bothering to look at him, she called over her shoulder, "I'll be late. Feed the cat for me." The back door slammed as she left.

Spike watched the doorway for a while, after she'd gone. She had never spoken to him like that before. She had always been nice and understanding. One wet towel and she got upset. Maybe it was more than the towel she was mad about. Maybe she didn't like him anymore. _Why should she like me, anyway? A bleeding, weeping loser - that's all I've been since she found me._

What if she wanted him gone? The thought caused a cold lump to settle in his stomach. He could go. He could do that, start heading for home. He was ready.

The lump grew colder. 

__

Like hell.

Setting his mug aside, he went to the laundry room.

~+~

It was almost midnight when Isobelle pulled into her driveway. She rested her head on the steering wheel, trying to muster the energy to go inside. She had made it just in time for morning rounds, and had gotten through the cases acceptably well. At least she hadn't fumbled for answers in front of the house staff. 

She had also drawn her service match - orthopaedics. That brought her one step closer to qualifying for the fellowship.

Pushing the front door open, she paused. Something was different.

Lemons. 

An antiseptic, lemony scent filled the air. She placed the smell – household cleaner. _Well, that's good,_ she thought, satisfied. A little help was all she wanted. She looked around the hallway. The wood floors had been cleaned and polished, the side table dusted and the mail neatly filed on the tray, instead of dumped in a pile. Taking the mail, she proceeded through the living room towards her office. She stopped halfway there, taking in the state of the room. It, too, had been tidied up. 

But something wasn't right. 

She frowned, scanning the details of the room. It wasn't just tidy; it was perfect. Throw pillows were arranged symmetrically on the sofa. Candlesticks were placed (with near mathematical precision) next to one another, on the mantle, over the fireplace. Not a speck of dirt or a stray cat hair could be found on the carpet. Nothing in the room was even slightly out of place. It was unsettling. Warily, she proceeded through to the office. 

Books had been rearranged on freshly dusted shelves. Papers, journals and articles were stacked on the computer desk. Nothing was like the way she had left it the night before. Kitchen, dining room, bathroom – everywhere in her home, the lived-in feeling was gone. The place was pristine. Everything was in order, scrubbed to within an inch of perfection. 

Why had he done all of this? It was unreal. 

She found Spike in his room, sitting on the edge of the bed. His hands looked sore, red and abraded. He wrung them nervously as she approached. A sick feeling settled in her stomach at the sight of him.

"Spike," she started to say, pulling his hands apart to examine the harm he had done to himself.

"Is it right?" His voice was low. "Are you still mad? Did I do it wrong?"

"No, it's fine – you did fine… " she stammered. His hands were cracked and had bled. How had he gotten it in his head that this was what she wanted? She looked briefly into his eyes, which were wide and dark, watching her passively. He had seemed stable these past few days, yet somehow, she had misread him. Snapping at him this morning must have set him off.

"I'll be right back," she said. She retrieved a soft, wet cloth and some lanolin from the bathroom. Kneeling in front of him, she wiped his hands free of the dried blood. He flinched once, but didn't move his hands away.

Spike watched quietly as she worked. She bit her lip as she cleansed his hands, brow knit in concentration. She still didn't look happy. He must have missed something.

"Tell me what I need to fix to make you not hate me anymore."

Isobelle swallowed hard and dropped the cloth onto the carpet. She had no clue he was still so mentally fragile. She dared to look up and saw those eyes staring back at her. All this because she wanted a stupid dry towel.

"Please don't hate me."

"I don't, Spike. I promise, I don't," she replied shakily. She squeezed some lanolin into her palms and started to massage it into his hands. He simply nodded. She kept applying the lotion until his damaged skin wouldn't soak up any more. Collecting the discarded cloth, she wiped her own hands.

"Come on," she said, patting his knee as she climbed to her feet. "Let's get something to drink."

Spike settled in one of the kitchen chairs as Isobelle prepared water for tea. Getting some blood out of the fridge for him, she went to retrieve a couple of mugs from the cupboard. Her throat tightened as she saw every mug and teacup lined up in precise rows. All the handles pointed in the same direction. 

They sat together, waiting for the blood to warm and the water to boil. She made small talk about her day. He listened without comment, taking in every word she spoke. He paid such close attention to her that it made her feel even worse, and she was relieved when the microwave signaled its reheat cycle was complete. Setting his mug in front of him, she toyed with her own cup, waiting to perform her own tea-making ritual.

"Spike, I am sorry about this morning. I was late and frustrated, and I took it out on you. And about something that wasn't worth getting mad over. I didn't mean to speak to you that way."

" 's alright. No worries here." He spoke into his cup, not looking at her. "My own fault, really. I deserved it. Not very useful."

"Stop it. That's not true. You didn't deserve to be spoken to that way, especially over something so trite. And you certainly didn't have to do all this," she gestured to the eerie perfection of the house. "This is not what I expect from you."

"I try, but it's never right. Can't seem to get it right…" he muttered.

"I think you're doing fine, Spike." 

She still had her suspicions about him and the soul restoration story she'd read. It was something she hadn't wanted to push him into discussing. If her wild theory was correct, Spike's story was one that was worth waiting for.

He quirked a small grin, but it faded fast. She sighed to herself, stirring her tea, watching it bloom darker as the bag swirled around.

__

This isn't working, she thought, lifting the teabag out of her cup. He wasn't in a place to hear her. She had really underestimated his progress these past weeks. She would have to tread carefully to rebuild his sense of security.

Balancing the hot teabag on the bevel of her spoon, she tried to swirl the string around it to wring out the excess water. She pulled too hard, snapping the string and sending the sodden lump back toward her cup. Without thinking she grabbed for it, yelping as it burned her fingertips.

"Damn." She dropped the bag to the counter, fingers stiff with pain.

Spike reached over and took her hand in his. He looked for a second at the reddened flesh on her fingers, then pressed them to his lips. His kiss was cool and it soothed the hotness of the burn. Isobelle was stunned. Spike sent her another small smile before releasing her hand.

"Better?" he asked.

"Uh huh," she replied, real words failing her.

He sipped in silence as she sat there. Moments ticked by.

"Isobelle?"

"Yes?" 

"You really need to be more careful, love."

She took a taste of her own drink and settled a bit closer to him.

"I know."

~+~

"Are you sure you want me along?" Spike asked. He was sitting on the stairs, watching Isobelle sort through suitcases. Miranda purred contently in his lap while he scratched her chin.

Isobelle sent him a patient look. It had been a tense few days. Between work and Spike's erratic sleep cycle, she hadn't spent much time with him, and she felt that wasn't a good thing. He had no one else; at least, no one she knew about. He went out at night, but except for the graveyard incident, he didn't tell her what he did to pass the time. Having the next few days off, she was taking the opportunity to get out of the city and she wanted to include Spike in her plans. 

"Of course I want you to come. I wouldn't have invited you if I didn't." She reached over and gave the cat a ruffle behind the ears. "Do you not want to go? Got a better offer I don't know about?"

"No," he replied. "Nothing like that. Just thought…"

She waited him out. 

"…_you_ might want a break from all… this." He gestured vaguely around himself. The cat _hrrummped _in irritation, his attention gone from her, and she jumped out of his lap.

"Definitely, no. Your company is wanted." Then, with added lightness, "Unless you're sick of _my_ company. I'm not much fun to be around sometimes."

"I don't think that would ever be a concern." 

"Well, then I think it's settled." She handed him one of the valises. "The kennel will pick up Miranda at noon. We hit the road at sundown."

~+~

It was midnight when Isobelle turned the lock, opening the cottage door. Stale air wafted by her, mixing with the salty sea breeze that blew in off the beach. She shivered slightly, the wind from the water cool, by June standards. By memory, she made her way, in the dark, to the back of the small dwelling. Pushing the pantry curtain aside, she found the generator. It hummed to life quickly, making the microwave clock blink blue in the kitchen.

She flicked on a couple of lamps before returning outside. Spike had unloaded the car and was leaning against the trunk, looking over the place. She sidled up next to him and seated herself on the bumper.

"Well? What do you think?" she asked. 

"It's… quaint," he replied, casting her a sideways glance. "Quite charming."

She bit her lip to keep from grinning. "That's very polite of you, Spike. Most people would consider it a wreck."

The little cottage was in fairly good condition, but was old and weathered, having spent its lifetime facing the beach, enduring nature's whims. A low greystone structure, it had withstood over a hundred summers worth of storms, winter gales and thousands of nights of family adventures. Its slate roof was still waterproof, though the edges were flayed and chipped at the eaves. Time had allowed the glass in the windowpanes to run and blur, pulling rainbow colours from the silicates. Ten metres from the drive, a wall, made of the same stone, bordered the beachfront. The cottage was the only one on the shore.

"No, really, it's… " he hunted for the right word. "I'm sure it's lovely on the inside."

"I know it's not much to look at, but when I was little, we used to spend every summer here," she said. "My great, great, great… " she was counting off on her fingers, wanting to get it right. " …Grandfather built it as a wedding present for… "

"Your great, great, great grandmother?" Spike supplied, cocking her a grin. She returned it, elbowing him gently in the ribs. 

"Anyway," she continued, "It's a nice little hideaway. Very private, quiet."

"Thinkin' I need that, do you?" he asked.

"I'm thinking, it doesn't hurt anyone to take a break, get a new perspective on things. Change of scenery sometimes helps."

Isobelle shivered again as the wind from the water picked up. "Let's get inside, see if we can get a fire going."

She loaded up her arms with bags and headed for the door, Spike close on her heels. Dropping the gear inside, she held the door open wide. 

"Come in, please," she invited.

Spike entered the room, examining it by the yellowed lamplight. His initial prediction was correct; the interior was much more appealing than the outside led one to believe. The living area was one large, stone walled space. An old overstuffed sofa sat in the centre of the floor, angled off a rustic looking fireplace. Chairs of similar fashion were squeezed into corners, surrounded by bookshelves, filled with old novels, framed pictures and the random keepsakes of several lives. Whereas the house in the city was lacking in personal or family details, the cottage was overflowing with remnants of sentiment and history. Thick, faded, brocade curtains hung off openings on the left wall, separating two small bedrooms from the main space. The pantry seemed to be a more recent addition.

"Just stick the whole cooler in the fridge," she directed, opening the flue on the fireplace. "I just turned the power on, so it won't be cold until morning. Nor will the water be hot."

"You have hot water out here?" he asked.

"Sure. It's a cottage, Spike, not a hovel. I can't live without hot showers."

He stowed the cooler as she had asked, then rejoined her in the living room to help with the fire. She surrendered the task to him and busied herself in the bedrooms, putting out fresh linens and making the beds. By the time she was done, Spike had a large fire built in the hearth. She dropped a couple of pallets in front of the fire, along with thick blankets and pillows.

"It's too cold to sleep back there," she said, wrapping one of the blankets around her. "I'm thinking it will be more comfortable camping out here."

Spike regarded the pile of bedding next to her, unsure of what to do.

"Er, where do you want me to… go?" he asked. 

"Wherever you want. Bedroom, sofa's pretty comfy. Plenty of room by the fireplace." She looked up from her position on the floor and saw the stricken expression on his face. She couldn't help but laugh. She seized the leg of his jeans and hauled him to the floor next to her.

"For God's sake, we're not in the fifth grade," she teased. "And formality has never been a big part of this… whatever this is."

Relieved to have her make the decision, Spike stretched out beside her, near the fire. The heat seeped into his cool flesh, making it tighten and tingle. This was where he wanted to be anyway.

"I hate the cold," he said absently, rubbing his hands together in front of the flames. "I always liked being warm."

"That's an interesting thing to say," Isobelle commented. She propped her head up on her arm, sending him a thoughtful gaze. 

"Why?" he asked. "You like being warm. It's a comfort thing. No reason it would be different for me."

"I mean, have you always… " she hunted for the right words, "_preferred_, or moreso since you were… "

"Turned?" he supplied. "Killed? Sired?"

"Um, yeah." She reddened slightly. "Is that, like, a stupid question?"

He gave her a patient smile. He'd answer anything she asked. "No. And yes to both." He shifted a bit closer to her. "Anything else you want to know?"

She smiled back. Dozens of other questions rolled around in her head. What else did he miss from his mortal life? Had he ever been happy with his vampire existence? There was so much she wanted to ask. Instead, she handed him one of the blankets. "Everything. But not tonight. I'm too tired right now. I wouldn't want this to degenerate into some foolish _Interview With the Vampire_ thing."

Spike watched as she sank deeper into her swath of blankets and settled into sleep. Carefully, he got up, turned out the lamps and rejoined her in front of the fire. He could tell she had already fallen asleep, her breathing now slow and deep. He pulled his blanket over himself and lay next to her. Heat from the hearth, heat from her, it all melted into him. He held the sensation close, the physical comfort of it lulling him into his own sweet sleep.


	5. Connection

Archive: If you like. Just let me know where!

Disclaimer: Joss' toys. Just playing. Don't sue me! I have nothing you want.

Thanks to my wonderful Betas Kristen and Sylvia, who keep me on track, literate and allow for indulging in girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.

~+~

Isobelle kicked off her shoes and stepped into the surf. The cold waves numbed her feet as she walked in the foam and silt. She had been cheated out of seeing the sunrise by the clouds that covered the horizon. She loved the beach at dawn; watching the pinks and yellows flicker across the breakers and creep over the sand. But this morning, the hazy sky overhead made everything dull and grey. She cast a glance to a rise in the distance. A knot formed inside her stomach. 

Bringing Spike here was a mistake. 

She had never invited anyone to the cottage before. This was a private place. Things not fit to share with others occupied her whenever she came; yet every year, she forced herself to make the trip. It got harder and harder every summer. 

Guilt nipped at her. She wasn't being fair. Spike was here for her convenience. With him around, she could pretend this was a vacation, and ignore the ghosts around her.

"Thinking of taking a swim?"

A voice from behind made her jump. 

"What? N… no, I'm… " She turned to see Spike standing there. "Hey, what… what are you doing? It's daytime!"

"And not a sunbeam in the sky. Shouldn't get too toasty unless the wind picks up."

It was unsettling to see him outside in the middle of the morning. 

"That's brave of you," she commented, sending him a weak smile.

"I have my moments," he replied. He fingered a blanket that was slung over his shoulder. "But it doesn't hurt to be prepared."

Spike studied her as they made their way along the shoreline. She didn't look right. Her face was drawn and pale, set with a grimness he hadn't seen before. The ease with which she usually carried herself was gone; she walked rigidly beside him, shoulders slumped, hands jammed deep into sweater pockets. 

"You alright?" Spike asked. 

"I'm fine," she answered. 

" 'belle, I can tell… " 

She glanced over at him, bemusement adding some light to her features.

"Sorry," he said, realizing his slip.

"Don't be. No one's called me that in a long time. It's kind of nice to hear it again."

"Since we're being all open and sharing pet names, there's one more thing I want to say. But first, are you sure there's nothing wrong?"

Her jaw tightened into a poor facsimile of a smile.

"I'm sure. Nothing's wrong." 

"I think you're lying."

She stopped and faced him. 

"That's a pretty bold statement to make. Should I be offended?"

"Be what you want, but be truthful. I may be the one with the fucked-up psyche, but even I can tell something isn't right."

"Well, aren't you just Sigmund Freud this morning."

"Freud was a nit, though he had an idea or two. More of a Jungian myself."

"Whatever."

"Last night you were all about happy family memories and great, great granddad this and that. Now you look like you expect the world to end. Did I miss something, or is this how you are on all your holidays?"

"You're imagining things, Spike. I'm fine, really."

"Then why are you walking towards that hill like there's some Big Bad, waiting to pound on you?"

She cast a glance over her shoulder, towards the rise. It was always there. 

"Not all memories are happy ones," she said softly.

"Well, I've shared. Want a turn?"

Isobelle started to reply when something caught her attention. Faint shadows started to appear across the sand. She looked upward. The clouds were starting to thin, rays of sunlight filtering through the haze.

"Bloody hell!" Spike spat out, whipping the blanket over his head. They sprinted back to the cottage, barely making it through the door in time. Rich, yellow light flooded the beach as the clouds retreated over the water.

"Are you burned?" she asked. She ran her hands over his face and arms, checking for wounds. 

Spike tossed the smoldering blanket aside. "No, I'm good. Stings a bit, but no damage."

He could feel her hands tremble, gliding feather-light on his skin, before stopping at his chest. Worried eyes found his as she assured herself he was in one piece. He moved them away, pressing her hands between his own.

"I'm fine," he repeated. She stiffened slightly in his grasp, then stepped back. Concern faded from her eyes. They became clear, unreadable.

"Good," she said. She turned away and started to clean up the bedding. Spike withdrew to the sofa, keeping out of her way. He could tell something was hurting her, but he indulged her silence, unwilling to strain the fragile familiarity that was developing between them. Trust was still new to them; she had his and in time, he was sure he would earn hers. 

~+~

The sun remained in the sky all day, forcing Spike to stay inside. While Isobelle ran errands in town, he poured over the books he had noticed the night before. Someone in her family had loved poetry. Collections by Donne, Shelley and the other Romantics dominated the shelves. The name Seaton Jones was scrawled in every book. Shelley had been an obvious favourite. He selected a volume and settled into a chair. The book fell open to a poem Spike remembered from his past.

__

I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden,

Thou needest not fear mine;

My spirit is too deeply laden

Ever to burden thine.

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion, 

Thou needest not fear mine;

Innocent is the heart's devotion

With which I worship thine.

It was a sad set of verses, prettily written, but morose. Those words stayed with him the rest of the evening. 

Isobelle returned from town with a smile on her face. Her mood was lighter, quite different from the morning. After sunset, they went to the beach. A nearly full moon illuminated the sand, making it glow against the dark water. Stars dotted the sky, the wind was calm and the air was warm and moist. It was the perfect summer night.

Isobelle set a small backpack down and spread a blanket over the sand. "Care to do the honours?" she asked, handing Spike a corkscrew and a bottle of wine. He complied, looking on as she sat down, digging her bare toes into the sand.

"Feeling better then?" he asked, filling her glass. 

"Was I not before?"

"Your little moodfest this morning had me wondering. Granted, we haven't known each other that long, but the big stare-down you were giving the sea didn't send out any cheery vibes. Didn't seem right."

She accepted the wine. Out of habit, she tapped the bowl of her glass against his before taking a sip.

"You've never woken up on the wrong side of the casket before?"

"Only once. And I've avoided coffins ever since. Nasty cliché anyway."

They sat together on the blanket, listening to the surf churn in the dark. Once or twice, out of the corner of his eye, Spike saw her turn his way, the hint of a question on her lips. She chased it away with a swallow of wine each time. Her glass was empty now, so he waited for her to try again.

"Spike?" she said, breaking the quiet.

"Mm?"

"Do you remember… " she trailed off, hunting for words.

"Remember what?" 

"What it was like? To die?"

The question caught him off guard. "You mean… to be turned?"

"Not exactly. I mean, when it happened. You had to die, right?"

'That's how it works."

Her eyes searched his for a moment before she looked back over the water.

"Never mind. Forget I asked," she mumbled, resting her head on her knees. Her breath hitched in her throat, and Spike thought he saw a fine tremor go through her shoulders. But when she raised her head, her eyes were dry. She passed her glass over to him and he refilled it. She took a long sip, her attention returning to the water.

"I don't remember dying," he started. "Not in the sense you mean. I wasn't aware of my heart stopping, my flesh going cold. When Dru drained me, all I felt was pleasure. And pain. It was euphoric. A new existence to explore. I felt – vital. Conceived and reborn in a filthy London alley."

"Reborn?"

"It was a new me. I had power. I was strong. Exempt from the social order, from the rules and customs that held me down during my human life."

"You didn't regret it?"

"No. I reveled in it."

"Why?"

__

Good question. _What was the good answer?_

"Over time, I felt I made a better demon than a man."

Isobelle blinked and turned back to him. This time he saw her eyes were shimmering with unshed tears.

"I've never heard anything so sad. Was your life so terrible? Your soul so lost that death was a choice?"

"I didn't _choose_ it," he said, a hard, defensive edge creeping into his voice. "But I didn't reject what I was offered. It was what I needed then."

"And now?" 

"And now what?" he said flatly, draining his glass, then refilling it to the rim.

"What do you need now?" 

Isobelle moved up on her knees and sat directly in front of Spike. She bit her lip to keep it from quivering. Her whole body was wound tight, her eyes bright and intense as they stared into his.

" 'belle…" he said, softening his tone, letting his guard drop.

"When death isn't enough anymore, what keeps you here? What makes it worth living?"

He moved to brush a tear off her cheek, but withdrew his hand before he touched her. He watched the silvery drop course over her skin, then disappear down her neck.

"Love," he answered. "That's what it's supposed to be about, isn't it?"

She pressed her lids together, ridding her eyes of their extra tears.

"It took losing your soul to learn that?" she wavered, wiping the wetness from her cheeks.

"No, but I understood it better. After, that is." 

She was still as stone, hearing his words, letting their meaning sink in. With a start she pulled away, her feet seeking purchase in the soft sand.

"Oh, God, I… I'm sorry," she stammered. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to… " She backpedaled from him. "I'm sorry I made you come here."

"Isobelle, wait… " he said. Getting up, he moved towards her.

"No… just stay there. I need to be by myself. Spike… I'm sorry I did this." 

She turned away and headed down the shoreline. He let her go, keeping her in his sight as long as he could, before the darkness swallowed her. Every impulse he had told him to go after her. It was dark. She was alone and upset. But he waited. A breeze eased down the coast, blowing the curls off his forehead. He closed his eyes and drew in a slow breath. He smelled the salt off the water, the sweetness of the long grasses behind the rise… and the barest hint of vanilla. He could find her when he wanted to. He would give her time.

~+~

It was a small family cemetery, most of the markers old and pitted with age. Names of relatives she never knew graced most of the monuments; she made sure they were maintained, but paid them only passing attention. They were not the reason she was there.

Isobelle sat in the damp grass, contemplating the stone marker in front of her. Her eyes traced over each character engraved on its polished surface:

Seaton Alexander Jones

1943 ~ 1982

Every year, she would come, sit here, and try to forgive him. Every year she failed. She would cry in the dark until the tears would no longer fall, but it was useless. Nothing helped. It got harder and harder, but she still made herself return, to try again.

She heard Spike walk up behind her. Wordlessly, he eased down beside her, close enough that his elbow brushed hers as he settled on the grass. The silence lasted a while longer, until Isobelle trusted her voice enough to start.

"My mother died when I was two years old. I don't remember her at all. I looked at the pictures, and the family would tell me stories, but she wasn't a real person to me. No one would tell me how she died. She had been ill, that's all I could figure out. That, and something happened, something that made her sicker, then she died. It was like this big secret that I had to be protected from. People around here are big on tragedy. Sympathy is a hobby. You can't feel good about yourself unless you're feeling badly for someone else.

"After my mother died, it was just my father and I. He was a doctor too. A surgeon. He worked long hours and we didn't see a lot of each other, but when we did, we made the most of it. Weekends here in the summer, Christmas vacations. I lived for every minute we were together. He was all I had left, and he made me feel like I was the centre of the universe. I knew I was loved. He would show me every day, even if we never saw each other, that he loved me. At least, that's what I thought.

"When I was eight, a partner in his practice started going on about this boarding school in Quebec that he was sending his daughter to. Raved about it - the curriculum, the faculty and how much his daughter loved it there. Next thing I know, fall comes and I get shipped off, away from my home, away from the only family I have. I spent the first months there hating him. I didn't call, didn't return his letters. Christmas break, I stalked around the house, complaining when he was kept late at work, and ignoring him when he was home. I resented being taken out of my life, angry that he wouldn't bring me back. He was my whole world, and he sent me away."

Spike remained still, at her side. He laced his fingers together, squeezing his hands tight, trying to quell the need to put his arms around her. She needed to finish.

"It only got worse when I went back to school. I still wouldn't call home, but he stopped calling, too. The letters got less frequent, and even when I caved in and wrote, it seemed like forever before I got a reply. By the time Easter came, I was desperate to see him. I may have only been eight, but I knew how to hold a grudge. I also knew when it had gone on too long. He had taken the weekend off, just for me. We made up for months of lost time. I had my dad back. I was the centre of the universe again. For three days, things were back to normal, like it was before he sent me away. He even got me a puppy for Easter, which was kind of stupid, because I was not going to be around until the summer and he worked sixteen hours a day. But he was trying to make it perfect. For three days - it was.

"The last time I talked to him was on my birthday. Nine years old, far from home. He called just before bed check. Apologized for not calling earlier, but he was working… I knew the story by heart. He said my present was in the mail and that he loved me. And that he was proud of me. That sounded weird. He had never told me he was proud of me before. Then he said goodbye. He hung up before I could say goodbye to him.

"Almost a week went by before I realised I hadn't gotten the package from him, or any other phone calls. I didn't think anything was wrong. Not until the headmistress came to my classroom door. I can still see her walk over to the teacher, whisper something in her ear. They both looked at me. I knew then."

She stopped speaking for a long moment, replaying the event in her head. After a beat, she continued.

"One of his partners found him slumped over his office desk. The needle was still in his arm. Photos of my mother were all over the place. He left a note, which was good. At least then, nobody would think he'd died because he was sampling. He killed himself because he couldn't go on without my mother. Seven years had been too long and hard for him to be alone. He went quickly. Potassium chloride and morphine were in the syringe. Poetic, really. Potassium to kill the heart, morphine to kill the pain.

"In the end, I wasn't enough for him. He chose death over me. I was nine years old, and he chose to kill himself rather than be here for me."

Spike felt a cold lump settle in his stomach. Fragments of their conversation on the beach echoed in his brain.

__

"When death isn't enough anymore, what keeps you here? What makes it worth living?"

"God, Isobelle, no. Don't think that. _Believe_ that he loved you. The pain may have beaten him, but that doesn't mean he didn't love you."

She gritted her teeth. He was trying to take it back.

"You said love was what it was all about."

"Don't do this."

"If you love someone enough, isn't the pain worth it?"

The hard answer came easily from him. "Not for everyone. We can only do the best we can. We have to live, or die, with the choices we make. He made a bad choice, love. But he made it in spite of you, not because of you. I thought I understood it well enough, what love can make you do. I'm just figuring it out now; it can twist you into doing the most dreadful things for what seems like the right reasons. Hate, sadness, despair, love – they all have their way with us. Especially love. That's the tricky one. It demands the grandest gestures and in return, gives us the most spectacular misery."

Isobelle gave a small, hard laugh. "You're defending him."

"No, I'm not. But I understand him."

"Of course you do! Because you were just like him, right? When your life got too harsh, when you got your taste of death, you embraced it, too. Only difference, ironic as it is, you got to _live_ through your demise. _I _was the one who had to live through _his_."

Spike had no argument against that; it was true. He couldn't tell her to get over it; it was twenty years later and her wounds were still bleeding. He looked at the gravestone in front of him and found himself resenting a man he didn't know. The name gouged in the rock was a taunt; he had had more than Spike could ever hope to possess. And when it had gotten too hard, when part of it had been lost, he had given up on what he had left. 

It was pitiable. 

"Come on," he said firmly, getting to his feet. She shot him a cold look and stayed on the ground. Undeterred, he pulled her up, out of the dirt.

"I said, get up."

She wrenched her arm out of his grip, rubbing the spot where his fingers had been.

"What the hell is your problem?" she demanded, anger sharpening her tone.

He pointed at the marker. "What he did was abhorrent. You want to hate him, you have every right. Hate him all you need to, but for Christ's sake, _stop_ feeling guilty about it. 'cause that's the problem, innit? He was a bastard and you want the comfort of knowing that, but you can't accept it. Or won't. This," he emphasized, thumping his palm over the centre of her chest. "won't let you."

"You don't know what you're talking about," she choked out, shoving his hand away. She took a few steps back and began pacing in front of the gravestone. Tears threatened, but didn't fall, making her eyes glitter in the moonlight.

"Liar. Again. You told me I was just like him, so I ought to have a clue or two about it."

"Must be the salty air here that's making you all insightful. You wouldn't have been this astute two weeks ago."

Spike pressed his lips together in a hard line. She was ravening now, looking to continue the fight. He had had enough. "It's not the air. Believe me."

There It was. In that split second, _It_ had revealed_ Itself_. 

And she had seen.

Isobelle slowly walked over to him, her eyes locked on his. His posture crumpled slightly at the deliberateness of her approach. He resisted the urge to retreat as she came near; he wasn't about to run from her now.

She stopped a few centimetres from him, close enough that if he did breath, she would feel it against her cheek.

"I think I do." 

That hot weighty pain began to roil in his chest. The soul never rested. Pressure built inside, a real, physical sensation, as _It_ reached out to her. _It_ felt as if _It_ was trying to bore through his flesh in _Its_ effort to make a connection. _It_ was tired of misery. _It_ wanted release.

"Deep thoughts," she said softly, never breaking her gaze. "Complex emotions. Empathy. Not the hallmarks of the soulless. Where's that raging Id I've read so much about?"

"And again with the Freud. Seeing the relevance now."

"I was wrong before. You aren't really like him. I didn't see it then, but he was hollow. He had lost _his_, long before he killed himself. He lost _his_ when my mother died."

Spike felt himself begin to panic. This wasn't real. She couldn't know, couldn't have guessed at his condition. It was too much. He wasn't ready for this. She slipped her hand up and traced a finger over the scar near his eye. His whole body shook at her touch. Sweet and intimate, it made him howl inside.

"But you... " she continued, moving her hand down to his chest, "you're not empty. I see you."

__

It battered around inside him, swelling, humming as the smallest bit of _Its_ torment cracked and fell away. _It_ had learned kindness and comfort. Now, _It_ wanted more. _It_ didn't want to be alone.

Isobelle leaned in and pressed her lips against his cheek. "You are brave. You brought yourself back."

She moved away from him. Inside, he protested, wanting to reel her back in to him. Instead, he watched as she sank to her knees in front of the gravestone. She dug her fingers into the letters carved in the marble.

Spike went to her, standing by her side, as she finished her silent goodbye. He offered her his hand and helped her out of the dirt. Giving her hand a squeeze, he led her away through the dark, back towards the shore.

~+~

Poem Credit

To ---

Percy Bysshe Shelley


	6. Closer

Archive: If you like. Just let me know where!

Disclaimer: Joss' toys. Just playing. Don't sue me! I have nothing you want.

Thanks to my wonderful Betas Sylvia and Kristen, who keep me on track, literate and allow for indulging in girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.

A/N: Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. Your kind words and constructive comments mean a great deal to this first-time writer. Thanks, as well, for giving an OC fic the benefit of the doubt. Keep those comments coming. J 

~+~

Spike leaned against the tree trunk, fiddling with the stake in his hands. Summer had hit hard for late June and the air was thick with humidity, causing fog to swirl around the headstones. Maybe it was the heat, or the fact that it was the middle of the week, but the streets were deserted. He pulled out a pocketknife and refined the already sharp point of the stake, whittling it out of sheer boredom. This was not the way to spend a hot, sultry night.

Feeling he had wasted enough time, he got to his feet and lazily strolled towards the gates of the cemetery, tapping his weapon against his thigh with each step. No, this was definitely not where he wanted to be tonight, but being in the graveyard, spoiling for a fight, beat sitting in Isobelle's house alone.

A new dynamic had entered their relationship since their trip to the shore. Spike no longer felt as though he were leeching off her empathy and goodwill, or being cast in the role of someone for her to simper over and save. The playing field had been somewhat leveled; he had been witness to her own moment of despair and he had pulled her back. He had become _necessary_. 

And now she knew about the soul. That had been a shock.

He reflected on the rest of that night; they'd spent it in front of the hearth, talking until sunrise. He'd told her about his quest in Africa, but he'd omitted the true reason for seeking his soul. He'd been grateful when she hadn't pushed for details. It wasn't something he had been ready to discuss or examine. The one thing he'd understood that night was the connection they had made at the grave. She had seen him - that deepest, rawest part within - and had not turned away. He was moved by her acceptance; it dulled some of the ache inside.

Swinging the gates open, he decided to take the long way back to the house and make a small sweep of a nearby park. Thick with shrubs and massive oak and chestnut trees, the park had lots of little hiding places that deserved a look before he called it a night. 

Like the graveyard and the city streets, the park seemed deserted. Spike stood quietly for a moment. He tilted his head, listening for the slightest sound, any hint that he might not be alone. A low whine off to his left got his attention. Carefully, he made his way to a clump of bushes. The brush rustled. Spike's shoulders tensed as he stalked towards the disturbance. Another whine, then a sharp mewl, followed by a loud crunch. Spike whipped the brush aside, stake held high in his left hand… then he froze.

"Holy sh… " he croaked, barely ducking back in time as a massive arm swung out towards his head. Definitely _not_ a vampire.

"Okay, no problem mate. My bad. I'll just be on my way then," he rambled, backing away from the demon as it broke out of the thicket. A good half metre taller than Spike, it was covered with dark, thick scales. Sharp tusks jutted from a mouth dripping slime and blood. It took another swipe, coming close enough to slash through the cotton of the vampire's shirt.

"No need to get nasty about it," Spike growled, dodging a third blow. Whatever kind of demon it was, it was powerful, but lacked precision in its attack. Spike easily sidestepped the creature's punches and managed to land a few of his own. Strength alone didn't seem to be enough to slow the beast down; the stake wasn't going to be of much use either, but it was the only weapon Spike had. He continued to dance with it, trying to tire it out as he waited for an opening. One hard kick from Spike sent it staggering backwards. With a yell, Spike drew his arm back and charged the demon, driving the stake deep into its neck. It gasped once, foul black blood pouring from its wound, then lay still. Spike nudged the carcass with his boot, satisfied that it was dead.

Spike made his way back to the clump of bushes. Pushing the brush aside, he winced at what he saw. Littered on the dirt were the gnawed remains of four or five kittens. The demon must have had a good night at the gaming tables and Spike had interrupted his victory dinner. He was about to turn and go when a small movement caught his eye. Huddled under the lowest branches of the shrubs, he could make out a small pair of eyes, glowing in the gloom.

"Here little one, come on then," he called softly, fluttering his fingers to draw it out. The kitten retreated further into the brush, forcing Spike to reach in closer. He grazed his fingers across the kitten's matted fur. It was shaking hard.

"It's alright now. Let's go."

He nearly had hold of it when a sharp pain lanced his hand. He drew it back with a curse. A tiny set of claw marks blazed across his skin.

"Think you're bad, do you?" he grumbled, thrusting forward and seizing the furry bundle by the scruff of the neck. A dirty blond kitten struggled in his grasp. Shucking off his button-down, he wrapped the writhing animal tightly.

"Now what are you going to do?" Spike asked, holding the kitten up to him. The animal stopped its shaking, its little eyes shining into Spike's. It opened its mouth to cry, but no sound came out. It blinked at the vampire, then gave another silent miaow.

"Manipulative little sod, aren't you?" Spike muttered, cuddling the bundle close as he headed to the house.

Spike was surprised to see Isobelle's car in the driveway. Being on call usually meant she was at work the entire night. 

Stowing the kitten in the laundry room, he went into the kitchen. He found Isobelle seated at the island, head resting on her arms, across the tiled top. She was wearing her robe and her hair was wet. With her head bowed, he couldn't tell if she was awake or not. He tried to ease by quietly, but her voice stopped him. 

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Little after three AM," he answered, relaxing a bit. "Didn't expect you to be here."

"Didn't expect to be here myself. But, couldn't stay at work looking like this."

Isobelle raised her head. An ice pack slid onto the counter top. A dark blue bruise bloomed over her left temple. She sent him a sheepish smile before returning the ice pack to her head.

"What the hell happened?" he asked, going over to her.

"Well, I learned a valuable lesson tonight. No matter how drunk you think your patient is, don't be stingy with the sedatives." At his questioning look, she elaborated. "This guy freaked while I was putting a cast on his arm and clocked me in the head with it. And I don't think I got all the plaster out of my hair."

Spike took the ice pack from her and examined the bruise. It crept into her curls, and was starting to feather down towards her eye. His temper flared at the thought of someone hitting her. He ground his teeth together to keep his anger from getting out of control. He could see flecks of white, salted through her hair, binding the strands together in knots.

"You tried soaking it out?" he managed to ask, temper contained for the moment. _Stupid thing to say,_ he thought, but he was at a loss for words.

"Tried until I ran out of hot water. The heat was making me a little dizzy, anyway, so I came down here. At least," she gave a small laugh, "if I passed out, you'd be sure to find me."

She crinkled her brow and groaned softly, returning the ice pack to her temple. Spike threaded his arm under hers and around her back, trying to get her to her feet.

"C'mon, pet. You need to be in bed."

"No, really, I'll be alright," she protested. "I should stay awake anyway, for a couple of hours at least. Concussion precautions."

"Well, you can stay awake upstairs."

A loud wail came from the laundry room. Isobelle looked at Spike, who did his best to steer her to the stairs.

"Spike? What was that?"

"Sorry? What was what?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Spike?"

Another wail from the laundry room. Isobelle slipped from Spike's grip and followed the noise.

"Oh, _that_," Spike said, keeping close behind her.

Isobelle found the kitten tucked in the corner of a clothesbasket. Grimy blond ears poked out from the black button-down shirt, followed by a tiny little nose and whiskers.

"Oh my God, look at you!" she crooned, pulling the ball of fur free from Spike's shirt. "Spike, where did you find him?"

"Hiding in an alley, downtown," he lied, not wanting her to know any details.

"And you couldn't leave him, huh?"

"Well," he started, glancing down at his boots. "You already took in one stray. Figured another would be okay."

Isobelle felt her heart flutter at his words. She hated hearing him put himself down. She put her hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

"Stop saying stuff like that," she admonished. "Come on, let's get him something to eat."

They fussed over the kitten for half an hour, settling him in the laundry room for the night. Spike could see the dark circles forming under Isobelle's eyes, but knew it would be a few more hours before it was safe for her to sleep. Determined to help keep her awake, he led her to the sofa, searching for some distraction to pass the time.

"What do you want to do?" he asked, "Cards? Chess? Tiddly winks?"

She laughed thinly. "No, I want to sleep." She sank against the cushions, curling into the soft fabric of the sofa.

"You can't. Not yet. You said so yourself."

"Alright," she grumbled, pulling herself back into a semi-seated position. She motioned for Spike to join her and he settled at the other end of the sofa. She nudged his thigh with her bare toes, and with a grin, stretched her legs out until her feet were resting over his knees.

"So," he started, flustered by her casualness, "now what?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "Talk?"

"Little late for deep conversation, isn't it?"

"Hasn't stopped us yet," she replied.

"Not quite in the mood to be reflective, love," Spike said, shifting a bit closer. Her feet rode past his knees, sliding her calves over his thigh. Her robe had slipped slightly, exposing the clean, white skin of her legs. In that moment, all he could think of was how it felt having her legs draped over his. His eyes wandered over her skin, taking in the small scar on her right knee and the tattoo on her ankle. If she just inched a little closer, the robe would part higher above her thigh…

"Hel-loo? Anyone there? I'm the one with the knock on the head."

Spike blinked, coming back to himself. Isobelle looked at him bemusedly.

"What? Sorry," he said, coming back to the moment. She had caught him wandering. He had been doing that a lot lately, especially where she was concerned.

"Mmm. Not a problem. I should probably try and get the rest of this plaster out anyway."

He felt a twinge of disappointment when she swung her legs off him. It had been a long time since he had shared the company of someone who didn't spend every moment telling him he was evil and useless; someone who didn't release their frustrations by kicking the crap out of him at their whim. He had told Buffy once that he knew he was a monster, but that she treated him like a man. That didn't last long after her return. This past month reminded him what it felt like to be treated decently, with simple kindness and respect. 

Isobelle had made it halfway up the steps when everything started to spin. Gripping the banister, she sat down on the stair. Her stomach rolled as the pain in her head increased. She buried her head in her lap, trying to catch her breath, waiting for the dizziness to fade away.

"Hey, open your eyes. Look at me."

She raised her head gingerly. Even that slight movement made the throbbing in her head worse. He was with her on the steps, concern in his eyes.

"I'm alright," she managed. 

"Sure you are," he replied. Her skin had gone so pale the bruise on her temple seemed black in comparison.

"I am. I just got up too fast." 

She hauled herself up, swaying as she regained her balance. She forced a grin on her face.

"See? Perfectly fine."

Spike regarded her for a moment, unconvinced.

"You almost passed out, didn't you?" he asked.

"Only a little."

"That settles it. You're not leaving my sight. We'll talk about stupid flower arrangements if we have to, but you're stuck with me 'til sunrise."

She gave a short laugh, wincing as it made her head ache even more. 

"Forget it. I'm off to the shower and you are _not_ invited."

He cut her off at the bathroom door, spreading himself across the frame.

"You're not going in without me." He arched an eyebrow, smirking suggestively. "Be a good way to _really _get to know one another."

"Fine, I'll live with the plaster. Who needs hair anyway?"

"We'll fix it. C'mon."

Spike led her to her room, settling her on the bed. Retrieving a comb from the vanity, he slid behind her. He fingered a lock of hair, testing for a knot, then carefully drew the comb along the strands. Bit by bit, the plaster flakes fell away, dusting the denim of his jeans. Her curls were soft under his hands, flowing like dark silk through his fingers as he worked. It was a simple act, but intimate. His focus wandered; he was acutely aware of the warmth that radiated from her skin, the delicate blush that was creeping into her cheek. He could hear her heartbeat and feel it surge with each stroke of the comb. 

Isobelle stilled beneath his hands, letting him work the plaster free. He was easy and gentle, and it was soothing. She closed her eyes and let herself enjoy being cared for. The ache in her head melted away as she started to relax. Her breathing slowed, matching the rhythm of the comb in her hair. A small thrill rippled inside when his hand brushed her cheek. She felt her skin colour at his touch, heat flood her skin. She wanted to slip further into the comfort surrounding her; it had been a long time since she had felt so content.

Spike let the comb drop to the comforter, the last of the flakes freed from her hair. He let the loose curls run through his fingers as he satisfied himself no tangles remained. The scent of vanilla was all around him, drifting off her skin and hair, seeping deep into his lungs as he drew in a breath. Somehow they had managed to edge closer together, her shoulders nearly pressing against his chest. He wanted to hold her closer, but knew he should be pulling away. He felt guilty, having these thoughts about Isobelle after having pledged his devotion to Buffy. Reluctantly, he got off the bed. He needed some space. 

Isobelle glanced up as he moved away. Her sense of comfort faded as she watched him hover at the foot of her bed. She smoothed back her hair and tried to smile.

"Thanks," she said. "I think you got it all."

"No problem," he replied. "Not as much fun as in the shower… "

They both left that sentence hang in the air.

"You know, Spike… "

"Mm?"

"I should be fine now. You don't need to stay."

" 'belle, you almost fainted, not ten minutes ago. It won't hurt to keep an eye on you."

Logically, she knew he was right, but that didn't lessen the tension between them. Part of her wanted him to stay. She had grown accustomed to his presence, and liked him being around. But now, it was awkward. They had gotten a little too close and neither knew how to handle it. Before she could reply, Spike spoke up.

"Here," he said, shutting off the bedside lamp. "Crawl under the covers and get some rest. I'll be over there," he indicated an armchair tucked in the corner of the room, "if you need me."

She started to protest but he cut her off.

"No arguments. I said I wasn't going to let you out of my sight. It's the least I can do after all you've done for me."

She acquiesced. "Alright, you win. If... well, forget if - _when_ I fall asleep, make sure you wake me in a couple hours. You can start to panic if I don't get up." She buried herself under the sheets, listening as he paced the room before settling into the chair. 

"Spike?"

"Yeah?" 

"Thanks. If it weren't for you being here, I would never have been allowed to come home. They would've made me spend the night at work and I really didn't want to do that."

Her gratitude warmed him. He couldn't recall the last time someone had thanked him, for anything. It was sad how a simple thank you suddenly meant the world to him. 

~+~

Isobelle stretched under the sheet. She could feel someone next to her. Strong hands pulled her close and she nestled against a muscled shoulder. Words she couldn't understand were murmured into her hair. She kissed the skin beneath her lips as her hands roamed the broad plains of her lover's back. The body next to hers shivered under her fingers. She arched her neck, her mouth connecting with his, in a deep desperate kiss. His hand trailed down her back and clasped her thigh, levering it over his to bring their hips together. She felt him, hard and ready, pressing into the soft flesh of her stomach and it made her moan against his lips. He coiled tightly around her and moved her onto her back. He rained kisses over her face and neck, nipping and sucking the soft skin at her throat. His hands stroked her body before returning to her thighs, curving around those tight muscles until they pushed apart her knees, holding them open…

Isobelle woke with a start. Pulling herself upright in bed, she blinked against the sunlight that filtered through the blinds.

"Oh, you're awake again."

She blinked towards the voice. Spike was sitting in the chair across the room, legs draped over one of the arms, book open in his lap.

"What time is it?" she asked. Her head ached and she still felt sleepy.

"Almost nine. Was going to give you another half an hour before getting you up."

Spike walked over and sat on the side of the bed, handing her a glass of water. She took a sip and thought about his words.

"What do you mean 'awake again'? When was I awake before?"

"At five thirty, you woke up, wanting a drink. Don't you remember?"

"No, I don't," she replied, mildly alarmed at the lost memory. "Did I, uh… ask for anything else?"

Spike shook his head. "That was it. Why? Is anything wrong?"

"No. Just making sure." 

She took another sip of water. Snippets of her dream flashed through her mind. She could still feel those lips on hers, those hands going over her body. She cringed inside. Spike, sitting so close and watching her so intently, made her more self-conscious.

"You should go to bed, Spike. I'll be fine now."

"You sure? You want breakfast or something first?"

The idea of food made her stomach turn. Forcing a smile, she shook her head.

"Nah, I'm good. Go to sleep. I'll be okay."

With a slight shrug, he got up and headed for the door.

"You know where to find me if you need me." 

She nodded. Before he had cleared the doorway she called him back.

"Spike? Thanks again."

He tilted his head in her direction. 

"You're welcome."

~+~

Spike closed the door to his room and let out a sigh. It had been harder than he thought; sitting in the dark, being so close to her, not being able to… he shook his head. _Being able to what, you idiot? Don't confuse things. She isn't for you. _It_ was for Buffy. All for Buffy. Remember that._

He rubbed his eyes tiredly. He remembered what it had all been for; the point was not lost on him. But he had changed. Part of him still longed for the Slayer, but that passion now left him feeling empty. 

He dropped his clothes in a heap by the bed and crawled under the sheets. She had been dreaming. That had nearly killed him. He had watched as she writhed under her covers and clutched her pillow; it had taken all his effort not to slip in beside her, to make her moan against his lips. He closed his eyes tight and shook the images out of his head. Hopefully sleep would come soon.


	7. Tempted

Archive: If you like. Just let me know where!

Disclaimer: Joss' toys. Just playing. Don't sue me! I have nothing you want.

Thanks to my wonderful Betas Sylvia and Kristen, who keep me on track, literate and allow for indulging in girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.

A/N: A bit of an experiment on my part. If it failed, the moral is: Never write with the radio on.

~+~

The sound of rain hammering against the bedroom window roused Spike out of bed. Through tired eyes, he watched the drops batter the oaks that lined the sidewalk. It was good he was up. She would be home soon. A thrill of anticipation rose inside at the thought of her walking through the door. Grinding his teeth, he bit the feeling back.

__

No way. No fucking way, mate. You're not gonna let her get to you.

Spike had almost crossed the line a few nights ago in her room. Brushing out her hair had been an indulgence. Sitting there with those silky strands slipping through his fingers; Dru used to let him do that. For hours on end he would tend to her, fussing and primping and coddling his princess, before sinking inside her, making love to her until they were both spent and quivering. Memories of those nights filled his mind as he had sat in the dark, watching over Isobelle, while she slept. He had no such recollections about the Slayer. As much as he loved her, there were no tender moments between them; Buffy had never allowed him to be kind or gentle with her. A soft kiss on her cheek earned a backhand blow to his. To hold her snugly in his arms after sex rated a kick in the ribs; anything to get him out of her way so she could get dressed and leave. 

He wasn't going to let stray thoughts of Isobelle lead him to think that there was anything more between them than… he struggled to find the right word. Friendship? That implied equality: give-and-take. It was starting to develop between them, yet he still didn't feel equal to her. He relied on her for so much, despite the progress she insisted he was making with his soul. She didn't treat him as if he were beneath her. She treated him well.

The soul. The thing. The thing inside that ripped and burned. _It_ saw her. _It_ needed her. That dependence placed him beneath her. She was good. He was not. Simple as that.

Thunder rumbled overhead and the wind gathered strength, shaking the house to its foundation. Lighting arced across the sky, flashing blue through his room, making him squint against its brightness. He needed to change his clothes. He had fallen asleep in his T-shirt and jeans and they were wrinkled and stained from last evening's patrol. He walked to the closet, shucking off the shirt and dropping the jeans as he went. He kicked them into a pile in the corner; he would wash them later. He didn't let Isobelle near his laundry anymore. He didn't want her guessing at his nightly activities. 

Pulling on a pair of black pants, he winced as the fabric rubbed against his right thigh. Pressing his hand against the stinging flesh, he cursed softly as his fingers came away wet. He eased his pants back down and looked at the wound. Dark red blood oozed from the cross-shaped burn on his leg. He got a bandage from the bedside table and quickly covered the charred flesh. He finished dressing, checking his arms and feeling his face for any other evidence of injury. Nothing - at least, nothing that showed. He heard her car pull into the driveway and made his way to the stairs.

~+~

Isobelle leaned hard against the door, trying to push it shut against the wind. With a final thrust from her hip, she slammed it home, sliding the lock in place with a sigh. Water dripped from her hair and fingers as she shrugged out of her coat and shoes. With a scowl, she realized that even her socks were soaked. She sat on the stairs and pulled them off, tossing the soggy fabric to the floor. Even in July the rain was cold; her toes were tinted blue under the nails. 

She heard footsteps behind her and craned her neck to see Spike. 

"Hey," she said, moving to one side, so he could join her. "It's raining out."

"I see that," he replied, sitting down.

"I got wet."

"I see that too."

"Spike, this sucks," she moaned. "My first holiday off in… " she paused, counting back in her head. "…four years and it rains. That means no fireworks and no waterfront. Just rain." She scrunched her toes into the carpeting on the steps, trying to get them warm. "It's not fair. I had plans for us tonight."

"For us?" he repeated. That was news to him. He bit his lip, trying to quell the pleasure he felt at her words. She had thought to include him in her plans.

"Well, yeah, for us. I wouldn't have any fun going out without a friend."

Isobelle tried hard to keep her tone light, but inside she was worried. Spike had been distant since the night she'd been injured. He wasn't avoiding her - she'd hardly been home in the past couple of days - but lately, whenever they crossed paths, he seemed guarded and nervous. 

__

Or maybe it's just me, she thought. She could be projecting her own feelings onto Spike. They had shared a lot in the past month. Intense emotions. Secrets. Pain. Especially pain. The clinician in her understood that sharing such experiences created a false sense of intimacy between people. That would explain the warm sensation she got in her stomach when she thought of him; it would _not_ explain why images of him pulling her into a kiss jumped into her brain during surgery. She tried to rationalize the thought as just appreciation for a handsome man. Spike was attractive and sexy as hell; and it had been forever since…

She stopped the thought. It had been awhile.

She shivered as her wet clothes drained the heat from her body. She looked at Spike and nodded towards the living room

"I can't believe I'm saying this in July, but I think we need a fire tonight. Can you get one started while I jump in the shower?"

"Sure. Got two sticks I can rub together?"

She sighed in mock irritation. "Men. Always going about things the hard way. No, there's kindling in the basement and matches above the hearth." She braced a hand on his shoulder and stood up. "I won't be long."

Spike listened as she trod up the stairs and entered the bathroom. The soul scratched inside, urging him to follow - to hold onto her under the spray, to run his hands over her, to try to make her warm. When he heard the water start in the shower he left the steps and went to the cellar. He slid one hand over his thigh, digging his fingers into the burn. He hissed as pain shot through his leg.

__

Remember that, he warned. _It's all you can have. It's what you've earned._

~+~

After supper, they settled in front of the fire. The rain fell harder now, sheeting off the windows in thick waves, as the storm stalled over the city. Lightening flickered on the walls and thunder rolled through the sky.

Spike had been quiet all evening. Isobelle doubted he would have spoken at all if she hadn't tried to engage him in conversation. Now, sitting together on the sofa, he tucked himself as far from her as he could manage. It felt like he was shutting her out.

"Hey," she teased, trying to draw his attention. "Keep quiet down there. I can't hear the storm."

"Sorry. Guess I'm not in a very chatty mood tonight."

"No problem - unless there _is_ a problem. Anything on your mind?"

He looked her way. Even in sweats and woolen socks she was pretty. He wanted to take off those socks and look at her toes to make sure they weren't still blue. He wanted to touch her cheek, to feel the warmth seeping from her skin. Instead, he went to the hearth and stirred the logs. They spit and cracked, throwing out sparks that stung his skin. 

"No. Things are fine. Right as -" he indicated the window, "rain."

"Ooh, bad joke. I guess you're okay." 

She picked up the TV listings and searched the schedule.

"Wonder if there are any spooky movies on. Shame to waste a night like this on 'Simpsons' reruns."

"I dunno. That Bart brat has his creepy moments. But, " he continued, reaching over to take the listings from her hand, "if you really want to be scared, I could tell you some stories. And I guarantee they're all true."

He was genuine in the offer; if he reminded her of what he was, she might keep her distance. It would make it easier for him.

"No thanks," she replied, fidgeting with the remote. "Besides, I thought you weren't up for conversation."

Before she could turn on the television, a loud 'pop' echoed outside. The house went black as the lights blinked out.

"Great," she sighed. She got up and flicked a few light switches, testing to see if it was just a blown fuse. None of the lights would come on.

"Whole street's dark," Spike said from the window. "The transformer must have gone."

He watched her move around the room, lighting candles. The space was soon soaked with firelight and heat. She shrugged out of her sweater and cast it aside. Yellow light glowed off her skin, her arms and back exposed by the tank top she wore. The scratching started again inside his chest; the soul, incited by the vision across the room. 

Isobelle took one of the candles and went to her desk. Searching the drawers, she found a small radio. She turned it on and static cut the air. The batteries still worked.

"Well, unless you want to sit in the dark playing 'Twenty Questions', this will have to amuse us." She played with the dial until one station came in relatively clear. She wrinkled her nose as the wail of a steel guitar poured from the tiny speaker. "Oh, God. Country. Now I know we're doomed." 

She set the radio on the coffee table. Spike was still by the window, leaning against the sill. Her throat caught at the sight of him. He was all angles and shadows in the low light. He was staring at her. She could feel his eyes touch her from across the room with the same intensity as if he had walked to her and physically laid his hands on her body.

__

Say something, say something, her mind prodded. God, he was beautiful. _Hell, don't say THAT!_

The notes of a familiar song floated in the air. She acted on the first thought that came into her head. 

"Care to dance?" she asked, cringing inside as the words left her mouth. _God, let me die now._

Spike gripped the sill in his hands to keep from lunging forward and taking her up in his arms.

__

No, his mind railed. _No, no, no, no!_

The soul clawed harder in his chest. He felt like his insides were being shredded as _It _tried to reach her.

__

Yes.

It propelled him forward, making him take her hand. He twined his fingers with hers, setting his other hand on her hip. She rested her free hand lightly on his shoulder. He started to lead her in time to the music. They took a few hesitant steps, getting used to the feel of each other. Holding her had settled the soul; _It_ hummed in contentment, with her this close.

__

Tell me one more time again, just like I didn't hear you

Like I don't know what's going through your mind, I do

I play the same game too, I know it's hard to stop even

When you want to

Isobelle relaxed and let him pull her to his body. His eyes rested on hers, staring deep. 

__

Now the moon lights up your face and I can see you're crying

You never liked me to see you cry, it's true, I've done some crying too

The hardest part about it is trying to hide it from you

Spike was aware of every place she touched him. Isobelle was hot and alive in his arms. She slid her hand over his shoulder until her fingers grazed the back of his neck. A shiver ran down his spine, as her finger ran through the short hairs at the nape of his neck. 

__

It must be great to be so strong, never needed anybody's help to carry on

But we're so scared of the silence and the tricks that we use

We're careful and we're cunning, but we're easily bruised

I don't wanna lie about it, I'm not bulletproof

Isobelle couldn't take her eyes off Spike. His gaze consumed her. She felt, at that moment, that he saw nothing but her.

__

Well, I finally found a way to hide from all your glances

Till the waiting game we play is through

I can, but what's the use

When all I really want to do is hide out with you

Spike closed his eyes and leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers. He felt a sigh escape her lips and she eased in closer. Her breath was warm and sweet on his cheek.

__

It would be great to be so strong, you never needed

Anybody's help to get along

We're so scared of the silence and the language that we use

Yeah we're careful and we're cunning, but we're easily bruised

I don't wanna kid about it, I'm not bulletproof

A tremor moved through her as he squeezed her hand, his thumb kneading the soft skin of her palm; it was a small gesture, but profoundly intimate. She rested her cheek against his chest, nestling into his neck. Her eyes fell shut.

__

Tell me one more time again, I guess I didn't hear you

I don't know all the secrets that you keep inside

I tried the same thing too, but they all come pouring our of me 

When I'm talking to you

She was everywhere on him. He could feel the rise and fall of her chest pressed into his, the soft swell of her breasts, brushing against him with each breath. Her heartbeat vibrated through him… it was… he couldn't begin to describe how it felt, holding her this way. The soul thrived as they connected, demanding more…

__

It must be great to be so strong, you never needed

Anybody's help to carry on

Isobelle brushed her hips against his. She sensed the music more than she heard it, responding to the rhythm of his body next to hers. Her breath caught in her throat when Spike pressed his thigh between hers.

__

But I'm not waking up each morning

With forgiveness I can use

Isobelle pulled back, tilting her chin upwards. They opened their eyes. Spike could see desire melting in those dark blue pools and Isobelle flushed, seeing the same, reflected in Spike's.

__

No I'm careless, and I'm cruel, but I'm still easily bruised

Spike leaned forward slowly, bending ever so slightly to reach her lips.

__

I'm so tired of lying about it, I'm not bulletproof

No, and I'm not going to lie about it, I'm not bulletproof

Isobelle stilled in his arms, waiting to feel his lips on hers…

With a mechanical _thud_ the power snapped back on. Harsh light flooded the living room. 

They froze. 

The warmth left Spike's eyes as he slowly pushed her away. He clutched a hand to his chest and took a few paces back. 

"Spike, I… " 

"No, don't. My fault. Should've been more careful."

__

Careful? She shook her head. "Spike, it's alright. We… I mean, I… " 

__

I just wanted to kiss you and hold you and…

He held up a hand to quiet her. The hint of a smile played briefly across his lips. His eyes looked sad.

"Don't. No worries love. No harm done."

He sidestepped his way around her and headed for the stairs. She watched him go, unable to think of what to say to make him stay.

"Spike, please… " was all she managed before he'd reached the steps.

"Good night, Isobelle. Sleep well."

~+~

Isobelle sat alone in the living room, watching the candles burn down. Wax dripped from the pillars, congealing into hard puddles on the coffee table. It had been almost an hour since Spike had escaped upstairs. She had tried half a dozen times to go up and talk to him, but she'd never made it past the landing. Even if she had managed to make it to his door, she didn't know what she would say. It felt like an apology was needed, but she didn't believe they had done anything wrong. She admitted it - she found Spike attractive and was drawn to him. From the way he had held her when they were dancing, she was sure he was a little bit attracted to her, too. 

Maybe it was a case of 'too much too soon'. The past month had been hard on both of them. They had taken turns giving and receiving each other's comfort. That one dance amplified the intimacy they shared and pushed it to a place they weren't ready to go.

__

God, that was presumptuous, she scolded herself. She had no clue where Spike saw their friendship heading; he could get up tomorrow and leave, for all she knew. Why did she assume there would be anything more between them? Goddamn it. One stupid four -minute song had completely screwed everything up.

Summoning her courage, she tried to go to him again. She managed to get one foot on the first step when her pager trilled from the hall table.

"For God's sake, I'm not even on call," she muttered, silencing the device. Red numbers blinked the emergency room extension, followed by the digits 9-1-1. 

Crap. Disaster callback. 

She called her arrival time into the triage desk and ran upstairs to change. After throwing on jeans and a T-shirt, she sped out of her room, stopping at the top of the staircase. She looked down the hall towards Spike's room. His door was closed. She walked up to it and tapped on the wood.

No answer.

"Spike?" 

Again, silence.

"Spike, listen. I have to go to work. I don't know when I'll get back."

She waited, but no reply came from inside. She sighed, running her hand over the door.

"Okay. I have to go. We can talk whenever I get home."

Reluctantly she went down the stairs. She didn't like the fact that he wasn't speaking to her. She liked it even less that she was forced to leave before they could discuss what almost had happened. Swallowing the anxiety that rose in her throat she grabbed her keys and ran out the door.

~+~

Spike heard the door slam behind her as she ran out into the rain. He sat in the middle of his bed, sheets pulled around him. He had thrown his clothes off, scattering them all over the room.

His soul raged. _It_ was harder and more demanding than his demon had ever been. The soul demanded. _It_ fought and howled and begged and twisted inside until he hurt.

__

It wanted her.

He jammed his palms into his eyes. _Fucking hell._

He didn't get _It_ for her. 

She didn't deserve to have _It_ inflicted on her.

__

want… need… lust… have… have her… take her… pain… PAIN… PAIN 

GODAMMITFUCKINGHELL… take the pain away… 

Never.

__

It would learn. He wouldn't bow to _It_. _It_ was for the Slayer. _It_ wasn't allowed to choose.

He got off the bed and walked, naked, to the closet. On the floor, under a pile of dirty clothes, was a small wooden box. Retrieving it, he sank down on the carpet, setting it in his lap. Inside, wrapped in a linen handkerchief, was a small pewter cross. He studied it a moment, then put it aside. He pulled out a glass vial, one of several at the bottom of the box. He lay it on the carpet as he packed the cross away, returning his cache to the closet. As an afterthought, he took a soiled T-shirt from the pile, before closing the door. She might not be home, but the neighbours were. He balled up a section of the fabric and shoved it in his mouth, biting down hard with dull, human teeth. With shaking hands, he uncorked the vial.

__

want… need… have… have her… want her… need her… have her… please… 

No.

Never.

__

It would learn.

He tipped the vial, spilling drops of holy water across his chest. They dripped down his body, burning his delicate flesh. He screamed against the gag. Tears leaked from his eyes.

He would show _It_.

He would teach _It_ not to want what _It_ couldn't have.

~+~

Song Credit

(Bulletproof ~ words and music by Blue Rodeo)


	8. Revelation

Archive: If you like. Just let me know where!

Disclaimer: Joss' toys. Just playing. Don't sue me! I have nothing you want.

Thanks to my wonderful Betas Sylvia and Kristen, who keep me on track, literate and allow for indulging in girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.

E-mail: spikeswillingslave@yahoo.ca

A/N: 'Girly selfishness' is in high gear. You've been warned. J 

~+~

The rain had stopped by morning. Isobelle picked her way through the puddles that flooded the walk, trying to keep her shoes dry. Success. She fit the key in the lock, then paused. She didn't want to go inside. She wasn't in the mood to deal with Spike yet.

The porch swing swayed invitingly, rocked by a light breeze that stirred the muggy air. She settled in, kicking off her shoes and resting the arches of her feet on the railing. The heat, the swing, the sunlight on her toes - she should be feeling good. So why wasn't she?

Spike.

Memories of the night before started to leak into her conscious mind, making her skin itch and stomach churn. She had wanted to kiss him. No, it had been more than that; she had wanted _him_ to kiss _her_. _World of difference, right?_ Hardly. Dancing, holding, touching - the way he had looked at her and had run his hands over her… what the hell had gone wrong? 

"You're home."

She hadn't heard the door. She glanced over and saw Spike leaning in the doorway.

"I'm home."

"How was work?"

Small talk. He was keeping it light and safe. _Good try,_ Isobelle thought, _but I'm not in the mood for safe._

"Work was a non-event. Callback was a mistake."

"But, you didn't get home 'til now?"

__

Aww, that's sweet. He noticed.

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Didn't feel like spending the rest of the night talking to your bedroom door."

Irritation crept into her voice. Talking to Spike was the last thing she wanted to do.

"Isobelle, about that…"

"Spike," she interrupted, "Let's drop it, okay? I really don't want to get into this now. I'm tired and cranky and us talking would not go well."

"I wanted you to know I'm sorry."

The swing slammed into the side of the house as she stood up. Her irritation began to mix with embarrassment. _He's sorry? _

"About which part?" she asked. "The 'leaving me standing in the den' part, or the 'bedroom door freeze-out'? Because I have to admit, both were new experiences for me."

She tried to push by him and into the house, but he blocked her path. Taking her by the arm, he guided her back to the swing. 

"Could you just put the attitude away for a minute? I'm sorry for which ever one pissed you off more."

She pulled her arm from his grasp and tried to look mad. Humility stained her cheeks pink as she tried to separate her bruised ego from what was truly troubling her. She sat back down and took a breath, collecting her thoughts.

"The door. You ignored me and that wasn't acceptable. I can write off the - other - as being caught up in the moment, but I'll be damned if I let you brush me off like that."

Spike nodded. The soul prickled inside, stirred up by her anger, and a desire to appease her. 

"No more brush-offs. Promise."

Isobelle blinked at him. "So, that's it? A little mea culpa and we're done?"

Spike made himself laugh. It hurt to laugh. It felt like razorblades slashing his chest and throat. But he choked it out, swallowing back the things he really wanted to say and do. 

"We're done. Or, I could repeat the whole thing on my knees and add a few lines about begging your forgiveness. Your call."

Isobelle remained silent. Seconds ticked by as she considered his words. One part of her (where the hurt feelings and embarrassment still bubbled and burned) was enjoying this; having him standing there, waiting, was coldly satisfying. 

That shook her. 

How could she take pleasure in his discomfort? 

What was he really apologizing for? 

__

Hurting my feelings.

He's let it become all about me. And that's wrong, because it has nothing to do with me. He's the one who walked away and he's the one who's shut me out. These are his responses to - what? One errant dance? There has to be more to it than that. 

Not me. 

Him.

Oh, no.

She had been right, last night. He did share her feelings of affection and attraction, but having them reciprocated had been too much for him to handle. God, now she was punishing him for being sensitive. 

There was nothing for her to forgive, but he wanted to hear the words.

"Okay," she finally relented, relieved as the tension started to fade. "Now you're teasing me. I'll take that as a sign things are right between us."

"Always."

Isobelle reached over and squeezed Spike's hand. "Good. I'm glad." She started to smile but it got lost in a yawn. Suddenly she was very tired.

Still holding onto his hand, she used it to pull herself up off the swing. "I guess I should go take a nap. Spending the night brooding isn't very restful."

Spike reluctantly let her fingers slip away. She paused in the doorway.

"You'll be here when I get up?"

More razors sliced inside.

"Of course."

~+~

It was dark and cool in the basement, a respite from the heat that baked the upper floors of the house. It smelled of damp concrete and laundry detergent. It reminded Spike of his crypt, except that it was cleaner.

The dryer hummed in the corner while Spike stood at the sink. Bed sheets were soaking in the pink-tinged water. He wrung the excess water from one section of linen and started scrubbing it with a brush. _White sheets. Why did she have to put white sheets on my bed?_ His brow furrowed in concentration as he worked the bristles of the brush against the bloodstain. He had been careless last night, passing out and bleeding all over the bed. The burns on his chest had split and wept all over his sheets. He added bleach to the mark and scrubbed harder. _Just make it go away, make it go away…_

He tossed the sheets in the washer, then stripped off his T-shirt and added it to the load. Welts ran down his chest like wax from a candle, raw and red against his white skin. It had taken a whole vial of Holy Water last night to quiet the soul. _It_ still picked and mewled inside, having tasted the comfort that Isobelle provided, wanting more. He pulled a clean shirt from the dryer before heading back upstairs.

He checked his room again, making sure he had cleaned up all traces of blood. Satisfied he hadn't missed anything, he put fresh linen on the bed and lay down. He closed his eyes, listening to the quiet house. There it was. Slow, steady and deep. Breathing. Her breathing. Tucked in bed, down the hall, walls of plaster and wood between them - he could still hear her. He jammed a pillow tight to his chest, wincing as the welts stung.

__

You'll want Buffy just as much, he promised. 

~+~

It was dark outside when Isobelle finally woke. Checking the bedside clock, she saw it was after ten PM. She had slept the day away. She got out of bed and made her way to the kitchen, calling out for Spike. There was no reply. He said he'd be there when she woke up; it disappointed her he wasn't home.

__

Home. She smiled at the thought. He'd been with her a month. When had she started to consider her house his home? Probably around the time it had started to _feel_ like a home again, instead of a collection of walls and furniture. It was nice to walk through the door and know someone else was there, or had been there, and would be, later. Even when he was out, his presence lingered: paperback novels tucked in the arms of the sofa, the spicy scent of sandalwood from his soap, little notes on the counter… She picked up the note. Refined script flowed across the paper.

__

'belle - Sorry I didn't wake you. Had to go out. Supper's in the fridge. S.

"Had to go out?" she muttered, heading for the fridge. She laughed out loud, seeing his idea of 'supper': two peanut butter sandwiches and a banana. "Great if I was twelve," she commented to Miranda. The cat brushed against her leg, begging for treats. "Forget it," she chastised. "I told him he'd spoil you."

Supper in hand, she went to the porch and sat on the swing. It was a balmy night, the oppressive heat of the day having faded with the setting of the sun. She rocked in the swing, picking at her sandwich and enjoying the peace. A few of her neighbours were lingering on their decks, taking in whatever sights wandered down the quiet suburban street. She groaned quietly as Mrs. Sabic came trotting into sight. Yelping behind her was the ball of noisy white frizz she insisted was a dog. Plastering a smile on her face, she nodded as the woman approached her steps. Mrs. Sabic was the lurker of the neighbourhood; nothing happened without her knowing about it. Isobelle was surprised it took the old woman a month to stop by; she was sure Spike had been the topic of a few fence-side conversations since his arrival.

"Good evening, Mrs. Sabic. Nice night for a walk, isn't it?"

"Oh, darling, too hot. Too hot," she moaned. Her words were drawn out by a thick Romanian accent. "Can't hardly breathe in this heat."

"Not too bad out now," Isobelle replied. 

"Not too bad - bad for you to be sitting here alone. Where is that fellow you have?"

Isobelle grinned. _That took less than thirty seconds,_ she thought. Mrs. Sabic must be itching for details.

"Out. He' s out."

"Out? He should stay out. It doesn't look good. Young girl, like you, alone with this strange man… "

"He's a friend, Mrs. Sabic. Just a friend."

The old woman frowned at Isobelle and waggled a crooked finger at her. "You should want better friends. He's out all hours at night, isn't he? And staggers back home every time. No friend, if you ask me."

Isobelle narrowed her eyes. "How do you know all that?"

"I walk the dog. I see things. I see your fellow is maybe not so good. What kind of man stays out all night and hides during the day? It's not right."

"Thanks for your concern, but it's really none of your business." Isobelle stood and headed for the door. The old woman clucked her tongue and yanked at the leash in her hand. The white scrap at the end yipped once and bolted down the walk, owner in tow. "And keep your mutt out of my flowerbeds," she added, under her breath.

~+~

Spike pressed the Popsicle against his jaw. "Who ever heard of a convenience store running out of ice?" he muttered. Sticky grape liquid oozed out of the wrapper and trickled down his arm as it melted in the warm night air. "Not too bloody convenient, then."

He swung through the backyard gate and approached the porch steps, stopping short when he saw Isobelle sitting by the door. He tossed the makeshift cold-pack aside and tried to wipe the purple mess from his hand. She stood as he climbed the stairs, crossing her arms over her chest, coolness in her eyes. Suddenly, Spike felt like a schoolboy, caught coming home late from his lessons. 

" 'belle," he greeted, hoping the bruise didn't show.

"Spike," she returned. She looked him over from top to bottom, pausing when something near his waist caught her eye. Before Spike could stop her, her hand had pulled the tail of his shirt out of his pants. A stake clattered to the porch.

Confusion played across her features as she picked up the weapon. With a sigh, she turned around and went into the house, Spike close at her heels.

"I can explain… " he started, closing the door behind them.

~+~

"Goddammit, 'belle, lookout behind you!" Spike shouted, pulling his stake from the dusty pile of his latest victim. Isobelle pivoted sharply on her heel in time to see a vamp lunge towards her. She had been so engrossed, watching Spike, she had forgotten to be on the lookout for any other dangers. With a yelp, she ducked the savage backhand aimed at her head, feeling the air_ whoosh _by as the vamp's blow failed to connect. She twisted into a tight tuck and roll, trying to put some distance between her and the vamp's flying fists. She tucked well, but as her shoulder connected with the hard earth of the graveyard, she lost her momentum, landing flat on her back with a loud thud.

Spike winced at the sound. He paced a few feet away, giving her a chance to regain her footing and re-engage the advancing vampire.

__

This was a stupid, fucking mistake! his mind raged. What in the hell had ever possessed him to bring her along on patrol? _Because she asked to come, you nit, and you haven't got the balls to say no to her._

"Get up, 'belle. Don't let him close in on you while you're on the ground."

"Great advice," she panted, twisting away as the vamp tried to kick her in the ribs. Her back spasmed, but she kept moving, putting enough distance between her and the vamp to stagger to her feet and meet him head on. The stake Spike had tucked into the waist of her cutoffs dug into the small of her back as she stood in a fighter's stance. Now better prepared, she easily dodged one punch after another.

__

Okay, so far, so good, she thought. _Twenty-six seconds in, still alive._

Isobelle knew this was incredibly idiotic. The skills needed in demon fighting were nowhere close to her basic self-defense techniques. She was rusty, that was for damn sure; each move made her muscles and joints burn with the strain. But, after discovering what Spike had been doing at night, she had insisted on tagging along. 

~+~

__

"No bloody way," he said flatly. 

"Why not?"

"Where would you like me to start?" He began ticking off reasons on his fingers.

"Too dangerous, too dangerous, you don't know how to fight, too dangerous…"

"Stop repeating that one."

"…not to mention if I have to worry 'bout your ass… "

"HEY!!" she warned.

"Sorry… your HIDE… you'll get me good and trashed. So forget it."

"Can so fight… " she pouted, crossing her arms over her chest.

"No, you can't. You help teach little girls -like you -how to keep their goodies safe from all the bad men and muggers, but you have no chance against the uglies I seek out."

"But… "

"NO! No buts!" he growled in frustration. "I'm sure you can take care of yourself, under normal circumstances. But vamps, demons… they're stronger, faster, and are only in it for the kill. Why would you want to put yourself in that kind of situation?"

"Okay, stop making sense. It's annoying."

"So, it's settled. You're not coming."

"If you say so."

Silence.

"Spike?"

"What?"

"Can you show me a few moves?"

~+~

Spike watched as Isobelle held her own against the now pissed-off vampire. Being human, she lacked the strength to really put the pound on a demon, but she was in good shape and fast on her feet. And she was proving to be a quick study. He should have known she wouldn't give up that easily. When she had asked him to show her some basic moves beyond her self-defense training, he understood that he would never get the idea of patrolling out of her head until she did it once. With great reluctance, he taught her a few things he thought would keep her from getting killed. Now, with bemused pride, he watched as she made good use of his lessons. 

__

Not bad, he decided.

Isobelle stepped back as the vamp's punch went wide and took the opportunity to go on the offensive, aiming a hard kick to his abdomen. She landed it, but at the last second, he grabbed her ankle, jerking her off her feet and causing her to fall once again. The impact drove the air from her lungs, making her cough and sputter for breath. She looked up dizzily and saw the vamp looming over her, bending down for the kill. Someone was shouting her name. As the demon leaned in closer, she caught a glimpse of long, sharp fangs headed for her neck. Panic rose, clearing her head, urging her into action. With a savage blow she rammed the palm of her hand into his nose, feeling the bone buckle and crack as it flattened against his face. The vamp howled, stumbling back in pain. Taking a deep breath, Isobelle drew one leg back and with all her strength, drove it into the side of the vampire's knee, popping it out of joint and making him crash to the dirt. Rolling up on her knees, she pulled the stake from her cutoffs and plunged it into his heart. Dust and debris smattered her hot sweating skin as the vamp burst into ashes below her.

"Ugh, that's disgusting," she complained, trying to brush the remains from her skin. The sweat made it sticky and it started to itch. She looked up to see Spike crouch by her side and place a supporting hand behind her back.

"You alright?" he asked, running his eyes over her body, checking for wounds. Seeing only a few scrapes and bruises, he helped her up and led her towards the bench where she had stored her backpack. 

"Yeah, I'm okay," she said, holding tightly to his arm as they walked. There was no way she was going to tell him that it felt like she'd strained every muscle in her body. He'd never let her hear the end of it.

He saw her wince as she sat on the stone seat, but gritted his teeth, biting back the 'I told you so' that was waiting to be spoken. Pulling a towel and a bottle of water out of her pack, he knelt in front of her, wet the cloth and started to wipe the dust from her scrapes. She rested her hand on his shoulder as he drew the towel over her skin, from shoulder to wrist. The dust came off easily and the itching started to subside. Adding more water to the towel, he did the same thing to the other arm. It felt nice, having him take care of her. At least he wasn't yelling at her. She frowned and reconsidered that last thought. Spike, being quiet, wasn't necessarily a good thing; at least if he was scolding her on how distracted and unprepared she'd been, she wouldn't have to wonder what was on his mind.

Spike sat back on his heels and looked at Isobelle. Her dark blue eyes were staring at him pensively. They were startling - clear, deep - like they saw everything and every thought that flitted through his mind. The soul twitched inside, excited from the fight and _Its_ proximity to her. He handed the bottle of water to her and she took a long sip. 

"Well?" she asked, breaking the silence.

"Well what, pet?" 

"Isn't it time that you started telling me about everything I did wrong tonight, reminding me how stupid and foolish it was to come out, how you were right and I was not and so on and so on…"

"Why would you think I'd say something like that?"

"I don't know. I didn't expect the silent bit. I figured the lecture was about to come."

Spike gave her a small smile. "Nope. No lecture. But, this was stupid, foolish, and I was right… "

"Okay, I get it… "

" …and you did a good job."

She gave him a surprised look. "Really?"

Spike wiped absently at a smudge of dirt on her chin. "Yeah. Not that I'm thrilled about it, but you held your own. Too much parry, not enough thrust. They're vampires, 'belle. Dancing with them won't tire them out. Get your target off-balance and go for the heart. End it fast, then move on."

He tossed the towel to the bench and held her hands, his fingers running lazy circles over the inside of her wrists. "But you shouldn't be doing this. This isn't what you were meant for. These hands… these aren't killing hands. They're for healing, for compassion, for … " he spoke softly, gazing down at the tangle of fingers and palms. Isobelle kept quiet. Despite the chill of his skin, his touch made her feel warm, and she savoured the tiny thrill that rippled through her. 

Seconds ticked by in silence. Spike looked up, meeting her eyes. With a start, he released her hands and stood up. "Right," he said, absently brushing dust from his jeans. "I think that's enough for tonight. Let's go." He quickly returned the towel and bottle to the backpack and slung it over his shoulder. Offering his hand to Isobelle, he helped her up off the bench and began to lead her out of the cemetery.

"Isn't it still early?" she asked. "It's barely after midnight… "

"I said we're done." 

They exited the gates and made their way down the deserted streets. Isobelle didn't want to go home; she knew if they returned this early, he'd excuse himself and retreat to his room, or possibly wait until she fell asleep and go back out alone. The idea of him doing this by himself, having seen the danger involved, up close, unsettled her.

She cast him a sideways glance as these thoughts ran through her mind. A near full moon had risen, bathing everything in a clean white light. It silvered his bleached hair, and made his pale, flawless skin glow. Her stomach gave a small flutter as she took in the sight. _God, he's handsome. No, not handsome, that's not strong enough. Sexy. Intense. Beautiful. _Her mind continued to ramble and, distracted by him, she stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk.

"Careful," he said, his arm shooting out to grab her waist, to keep her from falling to her knees on the concrete. She flushed with embarrassment. 

"Thanks," she replied, holding onto the back of his arm as she regained her balance. "Guess I zoned out for a minute."

Spike watched her cheeks redden as she righted herself. His hand was firmly set on her hip, keeping her steady, as she found her footing. They continued walking. Spike left his hand where it was, his arm resting nicely along the curve of her waist, encouraging her to settle closer to his side. She let her hand drift down from his arm, to glide along his shoulder, before settling it shyly on the small of his back. Heat oozed from her palm, through to his skin and he bit his lip. Her simple, casual touch felt good. Not sexual - well, not _completely_ sexual - but warm, accepting, comforting… The soul latched onto the sensation, begging for more. He gave in to _Its_ demands and slowed his pace, prolonging the walk home, keeping her close for as long as he could manage. It was getting harder and harder to deny his feelings, to refuse the desire of his soul. He found her so bloody attractive, but he could never hope to have her. Just like Buffy.

But not just like Buffy. Spike closed his eyes and focused on the feel of her palm on his back. Buffy's touch hadn't felt like that; it had never been gentle or modest. Her hands had always wrung from him the extremes of pleasure or pain; he had accepted every stroke, every punch, with gratitude. She berated his feelings, denying his claims of love by telling him he was in love with pain – well of course he was. Buffy was the embodiment of pain – hard, defeated, tenacious, and proud – and he had loved her for it; had loved her in spite of it. Part of him still did. But he couldn't deny that the devotion he still felt for Buffy had begun to pale in comparison to what he was starting to feel for Isobelle. The soul inside wanted _her_, not the Slayer; no matter how hard he fought _It_, nor how much he punished _It_, Isobelle was all _It_ saw.

Isobelle willed herself to relax into Spike's half-embrace, not wanting to do anything that would make him withdraw his arm. Tentatively, she moved her hand from his back to his waist, and was rewarded with a light squeeze on her hip. She resisted the urge to respond in kind, only settling closer to his side. 

Isobelle inwardly groaned as they approached the house. She didn't want the moment to end. They climbed the steps to the porch, Spike releasing her to dig his keys out of his pocket. Isobelle slumped down on the porch swing, setting her feet on the railing, as Spike tossed the backpack into the entryway. He hesitated in the doorway for a moment.

"You coming inside?"

She shook her head. "No, not yet. It's cooling some. Too nice to go in." _Thank God he_ _didn't turn the light on,_ she thought. The darkness, broken only by the moonlight and the street lamps, drew out the quiet mood of their walk home. She patted the spot next to her on the swing. "Join me?"

The swing shifted as he settled in beside her. She pressed the arches of her feet against the rail, rocking the swing slowly. Spike let his eyes wander to her legs, watching the muscles of her calves tense and release. The moonlight created highlights and shadows on her skin, drawing his gaze from her calves to her knees and upward to the hem of her cutoffs, which had ridden up slightly to tease him with a hint of her thigh. Both Soul and Demon were stirred by the sight. 

"Thank you." 

"Huh? Sorry?" he said, confused.

"For taking me with you tonight. You didn't want to, but I really appreciate that you brought me along."

"Oh. Well, you're welcome."

He wanted to touch her, to brush a stray curl from her face, or have her slide over and press one of those milky white thighs against his… 

__

Too hard! Too fucking hard! Being this close and trying not to hold her, to pull her into him and do things that would make her quiver and moan… 

Isobelle caught him off guard by shifting slightly onto her hip, resting her head on his shoulder and snuggling into his side. Spike was stunned. Did she realize what she was doing, or was she just tired and trying to get comfortable? Surrendering to the soul that cried inside, he slipped his arm out from under her and draped it across her shoulders. She didn't move away, instead pressing closer, brushing her chestnut curls against his cheek.

__

This is nice, she thought. She'd been afraid that he would move away and keep his distance. But he hadn't. That pleased her to no end.

"Spike?"

"Hmm?"

"Why do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"What we did tonight. Patrolling."

He gave an unnecessary sigh. "It just needs to be done."

"By you?"

He gave a small laugh. "You want to do it? You weren't bad tonight love, but don't quit your day job."

"That's not what I mean." She tilted her head up, trying to catch his eyes. "It's not something you have to do."

"You fancy having all these evil little nasties running around your hometown?"

"No, but I didn't even know vampires were real before I met you. I guess I just don't understand why this is so important."

"It's complicated." He hugged her a bit closer. "Do we really have to talk about this now?"

"Sorry," she mumbled, pressing her cheek into his chest. "I can tell you're not doing it for yourself, satisfying what's left of the big bad lust for manly violence."

"What makes you think you know me that well?" he asked, a bit more sharply than he intended. Isobelle winced slightly at the tone of his voice, but didn't pull away.

"Just a feeling. Tell me I'm wrong."

He couldn't. She was right. Damn her for learning to read him so well. But he couldn't tell her why. His reasons weren't completely noble or selfless; every night was a test and each righteous kill would take some of the self-loathing away. Twisted, destructive vamp therapy. It was a pathetic excuse, but nowhere near as shameful as his core motivation: he fought demons, risking life and soul, to win the respect of a girl who was probably happier that he was gone. 

But how much of that mattered anymore? 

__

God this is pathetic, he thought. _Look where I am. It's the middle of a warm summer night and I have one of the prettiest little things I've ever seen curled beside me, and I'm still fixating on someone who would as soon as stake me as talk to me. So what do I tell her?_

"You're not wrong," he relented, softening his tone. "Just know that I have my reasons."

"As long as they're good ones, I'll accept that."

"Big of you, 'belle, thanks."

"Don't… " she said, planting her hand in the middle of his chest and pushing herself up from his side. "Don't be glib about this."

Spike turned to face her, and was stunned to see tears, unshed, shining in her eyes. 

"I'd never stop you from doing what you feel is important," she began, voice shaky, "but I was never scared before tonight… I… I… care about you… and if anything happened to you, out there, alone at night… I… damn, this was not the way I thought I'd have this discussion with you… " She swiped the back of her hand over her eyes, trying to clear the tears away.

She cared about him. 

__

Do it.

Want her.

Take her.

Please, please, please…

His hand rested on her cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear that trailed down her skin.

"No?" he asked gently, hoping his voice didn't shake. "Do you want to start over?"

"Uh-uh," she sniffled. "I am embarrassed enough as it is. I'm sorry… I should never have started this now… especially since… well, last time… "

"Shh, don't be upset, love." 

He stroked her cheek tenderly. 

__

Please.

NOW!!! 

"Look at me, Isobelle."

Hesitantly, she lifted her blue eyes to his, and was taken aback at the warmth she saw there. He was studying her intently, his eyes roving over her face, caressing her with his gaze. Her breath caught in her throat as he leaned forward, his lips meeting hers in a soft, slow kiss. 

Everything stopped in that moment. Isobelle was only aware of him, the cool dryness of his lips on hers. Spike savoured the warm wetness of her mouth, easing his tongue between her lips, deepening the kiss. He couldn't get close enough to her…

__

Yes… yes… yes… yes…

Thank you.

Reluctantly they separated, Isobelle drawing a long, needed breath as their lips parted.

"Spike," she whispered, tracing his mouth with her fingertips.

"I know," he replied, pulling her across his lap, cradling her against his body. "I will, I promise."

Joy, anxiety, regret - they all flooded through him as he held her close. He was giving in; the soul was beating him. Beating him? Why was he fighting _It_ in the first place? Isobelle was everything he should want in a woman; everything William would have wanted as well. But - Buffy… what of her? Was that part over now? What had he started here? Could he walk away from Isobelle when he was ready to face Buffy again?

Spike squeezed his eyes shut, trying to rid his brain of these thoughts, these conflicting emotions. Isobelle nestled closer, placing a kiss on his neck. 

__

Stop!

Feel.

Love…

He felt her tongue dance over his skin as she kissed a path to his jaw. Tilting his head, he gave in again to the pleas of his soul and captured her mouth with his.

~+~


	9. WantHaveNeed

Archive: If you like. Just let me know where!

Disclaimer: Joss' toys. Just playing. Don't sue me! I have nothing you want.

Thanks to my wonderful Betas Sylvia and Kristen, who keep me on track, literate and allow for indulging in girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.

E-mail: spikeswillingslave@yahoo.ca

A/N: I forced myself to read lots of naughty fics to make sure I didn't violate posting rules with this chapter. Ah, the torture of research!

~+~

"Air." Isobelle panted, pulling her lips from Spike's. "I need air."

Spike reluctantly loosened his grip on her waist and let her slip away. Isobelle leaned against her bedroom door and tried to catch her breath. He watched as every breath infused her cheeks with colour, turning her usual chaste blush to a scarlet that made his dead blood burn. She smiled, hooking a finger in the neck of his T-shirt.

"I said I needed air, not for you to let me go."

"Sorry, love. I can fix that."

Spike eased forward and placed a light kiss on her mouth, his tongue teasing her lower lip before it traced a wet trail down her jaw, to her neck. Isobelle sighed as he nipped the soft skin at the base of her throat, his hands firmly planted at the small of her back, pressing their hips together. She held on tightly to his arms; if it weren't for the door behind her (and him holding her so close), she was sure she would've melted into the floor by now.

The floor?

She scanned her surroundings.

"Spike? When did we come inside? How did we get upstairs?"

He lifted his head and looked around. A grin spread across his face.

"I dunno. I remember the porch and the swing, but the stairs are a blank." His grin broadened into a full smile. "I must have been distracted by something."

"You don't say."

She relaxed her grip on his arms, drawing her nails lightly over his biceps, making the fine hairs on his skin stand on end. Delicious tension knotted in her belly as she felt his dark, cyan eyes lock onto hers. Another delicate kiss brushed her mouth.

" 'belle?" he murmured against her lips, "Now what?"

One of her hands traveled across his chest and grasped a fistful of his shirt, while the other snaked behind her back to fumble for the doorknob. They stumbled across the threshold and into the room; moonlight filtered through the thick curtains, bathing it in a silver glow. Isobelle stood near the bed, watching Spike hover in the doorway.

"Do you need to be invited?" 

He shook his head. 

This wasn't like before; _she_ would let him in. He didn't need her invitation, but he wanted it. He wanted to hear the words. 

He was afraid to blink, to tear his eyes away from her; as long as he could see her, this was real. He had felt her with his hands, had tasted her with his mouth, and had reached out to her with his soul; it _had_ to be real.

__

Please be real.

"Do you _want_ to be invited?" 

"God, yes," he said softly.

"Spike, come in."

Those three words were all he needed. He went over and ran his fingers through her hair, his hands cupping the soft contours of her face. His lips grazed hers with the hint of a kiss, before he slid his tongue into her mouth. Isobelle pressed closer, rolling her hips against his, feeling him harden through the layers of denim between them. She pulled his T-shirt from the waist of his jeans and ran her hands over his back. He shivered under her palms.

Clothes pooled around their feet as one slowly undressed the other, kisses and caresses replacing the fabric that had covered their skin, no modesty or hesitation hindering their progress. He slipped one hand under the thin cotton of her bra and teased her nipple into a firm peak. She moaned as his thumb rolled over the sensitive tip, sending tiny shocks of pleasure through her belly down to her toes. Spike smiled and nuzzled her neck, feeling her pulse race with each stroke he gave her tender flesh. Not bothering with the clasp, he pulled the garment off over her head and let it drop to the floor. Her ivory skin perfectly complimented his, glowing clean and white in the gauzy moonlight.

"You're beautiful," he whispered.

Isobelle's fingers traced the twin arcs of his collarbones from breastbone to shoulders. She kissed the hollow of his throat as her hands continued their journey over his arms and chest. 

"So are you," she murmured. She kissed a path from his throat to his chest. His muscles felt like marble under her lips, cool and smooth and firm. He growled when her palm brushed over the bulge in his jeans; a squeeze from her quickly turned the growl into a whine as she teased him through the denim. Hooking a finger in one of the belt loops she pulled his hips closer, pressing him into the damp cotton of her panties. Isobelle backpedaled her way to the bed, keeping Spike as close to her as possible. She sat on the edge of the mattress and unbuttoned his jeans. She kept her eyes locked on his as she undid his fly; stormy blue eyes gazed back, brimming with desire. No one had ever looked upon her with such passion or intensity. 

Spike ran his hands over her thighs, moving her knees up and apart to hook her calves around his waist. He tipped her back against the bed and settled over her. Her fingers mussed his hair into loose curls as she guided his mouth down to hers. Every kiss made him harder, every swirl of her tongue encouraged him to go farther. He shifted his weight to rest on one arm, freeing a hand to travel down her body. His fingers danced lightly over her skin, moving from breast to belly and back, before descending lower to the hem of her panties. She gasped as he drew one finger down the centre of the soaked scrap of cotton. He massaged her through the fabric, making her hips roll. 

"Do you like that?" 

"Yes," she sighed. Her head was spinning from his touch. "Don't stop."

Spike slipped his hand inside her panties, fingers grazing the tight bundle of nerves hidden among the wet curls. Long, languid strokes teased her, and she rocked against his palm, urging him to go faster. He maintained his pace, going only so far, running one fingertip over her entrance, but not dipping into its hot, wet depths. He busied his mouth at her breast, nipping and suckling her skin. Her heartbeat pounded through her chest, growing faster and stronger with his touch. He tore his lips from her breast and looked at her. The sight amazed him.

Isobelle's eyes were closed, cheeks flushed with pleasure. One hand was tangled in his hair, the other clutched the comforter, holding on as she writhed beneath him. 

"Open your eyes," he whispered. 

Isobelle's eyes fluttered open, meeting his gaze. Spike turned his wrist slightly and slid one finger inside. Isobelle gasped and shuddered, never taking her eyes off of his. She moved in rhythm with his hand, her muscles tightening around him with each gentle thrust. He slipped a second finger inside, his thumb brushing against the sensitive knot above. Harder, deeper, faster - she was getting so close…

Isobelle cried out in protest when Spike withdrew his hand. He silenced her with a rough kiss before tugging her last scrap of clothing down her legs. Together, they slid off his jeans and she wrapped her calves back around his waist. It was her turn now; she dragged her fingers over the muscles of his abdomen, up and down, each time running them closer to the erection pressing against her thigh. She took him in her palm and gave one hard stroke over his length, making him growl into her mouth. It was the most erotic sound she had ever heard; deep and guttural, it resonated through her, shaking her to the core. 

"Now," she panted, guiding him to her, "I need you now."

He needed no further encouragement; he thrust forward, slowly sinking inside until they were locked together. They moved as one, sweat-slicked bodies gliding gently as they danced, intensifying the delicious ache between them. 

He felt her quiver beneath him, her arms and legs holding onto his body as he worked her over the edge.

"Look at me, 'belle, please. I want to watch you."

Once again, her eyes found his. There was more than simple passion in her gaze; her blue eyes shone with acceptance, vulnerability; but most of all, with complete and utter trust. 

She trusted him.

"Spike? Oh, God… " she wavered, her body seizing around his as she came. Her hips arched off the bed and rocked against his, holding him deep inside. He lost it then, feeling her thrash and tighten around him. He buried his head in her neck, her name spilling from his lips with a harsh roar. He collapsed on top of her, gulping for air he didn't need as waves of pleasure rippled through him.

"I think we ruined the comforter," he mumbled, licking salty sweat from her skin. 

"It was worth it," she replied, stroking his hair. "That was wonderful, Spike."

They lay together for a few moments longer, trading kisses and caresses, separating only to push the stained linen to the floor and crawl under the sheets. They nestled together, a happy, sated tangle of arms and legs and lips. 

__

This is how it's supposed to be, Spike thought. 

__

This is what I want.

~+~

Spike lay awake in the dark room, waiting for her to fall asleep. He carefully got out of bed and pulled on his pants before slipping away. The hall carpet muffled his steps as he made his way to his bedroom. Miranda and the rescued kitten, Dante, had made his bed their favourite sleeping spot. He found them curled together among the sheets, a knot of darkness and light, furry doppelgangers of himself and Isobelle.

He dug around the closet for the small wooden box he had hidden there the week before.

One week.

One week since their dance, when his resolve had started to crumble and his punishments failed to silence the soul inside. Tonight, he had given in; he wasn't up to fighting _It_ anymore. Isobelle had become his salvation, his comfort; a living, breathing validation of his right to exist. 

The soul had been his gift for the Slayer; one last grand gesture to win her love. That idea had appealed to the bloody poet that still rattled inside, but the demon had been the one forced to live with the bitterness and loathing that had come with his prize. It had been hard enough, slogging through the guilt, the nightmares and the self-hatred; it would be made worse if she rejected his offering. 

If? 

__

Fuck 'if', he thought. Buffy had no reason to ever want him again; not to use, beat, screw or spit on. Well, except for 'use'. He made a good demon fighter; he was strong and expendable. No, she would still make use him, when things turned grim and a sacrifice was required.

He found the box and made a quick inventory of the contents. The small pewter cross, wrapped in bloodstained linen, a few vials of holy water and the empty vial, all accounted for. He closed the lid and headed for the door. He wanted to get rid of it all, tonight. He was halfway down the stairs when he heard her voice.

"Where are you going?"

She peered down at him from the banister. She cinched her robe tighter around her waist, waiting for his reply.

"Just stepping out for a minute. I won't be long."

"Spike? It's 4:00 AM."

"Huh? I know, love. I just want to toss something out. I'll be right back."

"And I say again, Spike, it's 4:00 AM." She noticed the small box in his hand. "What's that?"

"This? It's nothing. Trash. Going to throw it out now."

Isobelle extended her hand over the railing towards Spike. "Can I see what's inside?"

Spike swallowed. He wanted to get the box out of the house. "I told you, 'belle, it's nothing."

"The more you say 'it's nothing', the more I believe it's something. No secrets, remember? No more shutting each other out." She went to the top of the steps. "Spike? What's inside the box? Why are you sneaking around, trying to get rid of it?"

"I'm not 'sneaking'," he said, hurt. "It's… I just… " 

He hunted for the right words. If he could come up with something clever, she might let it go. 

__

Yeah, like that would happen.

He walked back up the stairs, the little box feeling like a ten-ton weight in his palm. He handed it to her, then slipped inside her room.

Isobelle stood in the hall, unsure of what to do. She heard the bedsprings creak as Spike sat on the side. She opened the lid and examined the items inside. The bloodstained handkerchief, the cross, the vials - none of it made sense to her; not why they were here, or in Spike's possession.

She set the box on the hall table and went to Spike. She sat on the bed, and waited.

"You looked inside?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. 'And' what? What aren't you telling me?"

"Isobelle, there's so much… "

"Just start with the box."

"The box," he began, "is my other chip."

"What?"

He sighed. This was going to be excruciating.

"The chip, the one shoved in my brain? I told you about it, right? Told you what it did, how it worked?"

"Yeah, I mean… yes. It gave you pain whenever you tried to hurt someone."

He chuckled. It made a hollow sound in the darkened room.

"Gave me an idea, it did."

A chill ran down her spine. "What kind of idea?"

"If the chip - if the _pain_ - could keep me from hurting people, it could keep me from doing other things. From wanting other things." He tapped his head. "Vampire doesn't equal stupid; well, not _all_ the time."

He wrapped a hand around her wrist and pulled her to the carpet, making her kneel in front of him.

"The soul… well, it comes with its own set of rules. There's the general self-loathing, the guilt… you've seen that part. Funny thing, though; _It_ thinks _It _has free will." He stroked her cheek, searching her eyes for a hint of the acceptance and trust he had seen earlier. "I got _It_ - suffered for _It_, fought for _It_, to have _It_ for - " 

The words caught in his throat. How could he admit this to her?

" - and _It_ didn't want her. _It_ saw you, Isobelle, and _It_ chose _you_. I… I couldn't just give in; I had to try to teach _It_… "

"Wha… what are you saying to me? Spike? Are you… is there someone else?"

"Yes. No. Yes and no. Fuck, Isobelle, I don't know!"

Isobelle was shaking. She could feel sweat rolling down her back, but she felt cold. She tried to push herself away from him, but he held her in place.

"Spike," she whispered, trying to keep her voice steady, "let go."

He shook his head. "Not 'til you understand."

"Let go of my hand and I promise, I'll stay and listen."

He released her wrist. Isobelle resisted the urge to run out of the room. He wouldn't hurt her; he _couldn't_ hurt her; not physically, at least. She ignored, for the moment, the pain that ran through her chest; her metaphorical heart tearing in two.

When she didn't run, he was grateful; he had expected her to bolt for the door.

"My soul," he continued. "Mine to do with as I pleased. I had no idea _It_ would be the one making the decisions."

"You… you said, _It_ didn't want her. You wanted _It_ for someone else?" 

"To be worthy. To be deserving. To be… "

"Wait, wait… " she interrupted. She wasn't sure she was hearing him correctly.

"You fought for your soul, to get _It_ back, to _give_ _It_ to someone?"

She shook her head.

"You idiot."

She jumped to her feet and paced in front of him. The man was admitting to - what? Punishing himself? Because his soul, the essence he'd reclaimed, didn't want to be given away?

Because _It_ wanted her.

"I never meant for you to find out about this," he said softly. "I just… I didn't know what else to do."

Isobelle stopped pacing and turned to him. "You didn't?" she asked, incredulous. "You couldn't talk to me? Spike, I have _never_… " She paused, trying to keep calm. "I have _always_ been here for you. I thought you would've known by now that you could tell me _anything_."

"I know," he acquiesced. "I should've. But it was so hard, 'belle, so… " He rubbed his eyes, trying to focus his train of thought. " …it's still hard."

Swallowing her own pride and anger, Isobelle forced herself to kneel back down in front of him. She took his hands in hers. He latched on tightly.

"Spike, how am I supposed to trust you when you keep things from me?"

"How could I tell you something I wouldn't admit to myself? You have no clue - no _fucking_ clue at all - how it feels, to pass the challenge of your existence, only to find out your reward is fighting against you."

He pushed off the bed and pulled her to her feet. She tried not to resist when he drew her closer.

"I did everything I could to keep _It_ in line. I tried ignoring _It_, thinking I was still in control. That didn't work. I kept up with the patrolling, the scrapping, reminding _It_ and myself what we were good for; again, failure. The only thing left was to beat _It_ down - punish _It_ into behaving. Worked for a bit, but I didn't realize how strong _It_ could be… and how weak I'd become."

She didn't want to hear that. It couldn't be true. Despite all her attempts to help him, to be there for him, he had still managed to convince himself he didn't deserve kindness. He wanted to wear his soul like a lavaliere - a pretty symbol of love and devotion and true emotion; the last slip of humanity his demon could procure. 

"Stop it," she choked, edging away. "Do you hear yourself? You keep calling your soul _It_, like it's a thing. 'Fight _It_, punish _It_,' - your soul isn't your enemy, Spike. Your soul is _you_; you're fighting yourself - hurting yourself."

He shook his head sadly. "That little bit of sophistry doesn't make it any easier to accept."

She considered that for a moment. He was right; nothing about this situation was easy to accept. Unfortunately for her, one thing became clear: this was no longer simply about Spike. She had allowed her heart to rule her head; her emotional entanglement made her partly responsible for whatever he had done to himself. Sadly, she was also to blame for what he had, unknowingly, done to her.

"It isn't supposed to."

He waved her off and wandered around the room. 

"If that's how little you think of yourself and your soul," she continued, "it doesn't say much about me."

He stopped roaming and looked at her. "What do you mean?"

"You wanted your soul, so the person you loved would love you back. But it torments you, makes you feel all sorts of things you don't want to feel - guilt, self-hatred - makes you miserable."

"Get to the point."

"As bad as you felt, it was worse when you actually started to feel good. It wasn't right, being content, having someone treat you with decency. You didn't believe you'd earned it; that or you didn't want it from anyone except the one you loved. How terrible it must have been to discover that your - reward, is that what you called _It_? - preferred kindness to yearning."

"Still not seeing the point."

"I'll speak slower. I was here for you. I saw your pain and wanted to make it better; I thought that's what you wanted, too. I didn't realize that what you wanted was to wallow in your misery; there's a pathetic nobility in penitent suffering. But what you were - or apparently still are - doing isn't penance, Spike; it's indulgence. You considered yourself dirt and the more comfort I gave, the worse you felt about accepting it; accepting me."

"But you're wrong," he interjected. "I did accept you. I wanted you."

"No. You didn't accept me. You _settled_."

She walked slowly to him, feeling vulnerable wearing only her robe. "So here you are, disgusted with yourself that you couldn't tolerate the loneliness anymore, feeling weak because you wanted the comfort; a lower-than-low, pitiable souled vampire." She trailed her fingers over his bare chest, taking no pleasure in how he shivered from her touch. "But I was the supplicant. I slipped beneath you and let you in."

Spike stared at her, horrified, as the meaning of her words started to sink in. 

Anger - or was it sadness? - made her voice waver. "You simply traded one form of punishment for another. How could you make yourself suffer just a little more? Deny the emotion. I made love to you, Spike. You had sex with me."

She turned from him and walked to the door. 

"Isobelle," he pleaded, "that's not true. Just listen to me… "

"It's alright," she said, not looking back. "I should've know better. Not your fault."

~+~

Spike spent the rest of the night in the hall, slumped in the doorway of her bedroom. He passed the hours reflecting on her words, teasing insight from emotion. Some of what she said had merit; he wanted so badly to feel something good, something other than guilt and loathing, but he wouldn't accept it when it was offered. She'd been there - _really_ been there - so many times and he'd been too much of a fucking self-hating coward to see it.

__

Sound familiar, you sot?

But she was wrong - utterly, completely, _WRONG_ - about two things.

First, it _was_ his fault. He should've been more honest about how important she was becoming to him, instead of stewing and fretting over it, until his only recourse had been the bloody box of abuse. But she would be resolute; any explanation he gave would never negate her feelings of responsibility for him hurting himself.

Secondly, and more importantly, he was with her because he wanted her. For all his soul's pleading for comfort and love, he chose to be with her because it felt right _to him_. He didn't deserve it and he hadn't earned it, but he needed it; she'd invited him in, and he had no plans to leave her now. 

And none of that mattered. He wouldn't waste one breath trying to convince her of either point. He believed, deep down in his broken soul, that he would make her trust him again; and, when she did, she would know how he felt and all doubts would fade away.

He'd be patient. His chance would come.

~+~

Isobelle finished the last drops of her morning coffee, grimacing as the cold, bitter liquid slid down her throat. She placed the mug in the sink and took a slow walk around the kitchen. Everything was neat and in its place, from tea towels to trivets. She sighed, searching for something - anything - to distract her. Five days was too long to be moping over one little indiscretion.

__

Yeah, that's it. A little indiscretion. Euphemisms are your friend.

After re-arranging the magnets on the refrigerator - for the third time - she noticed that the calendar had not been advanced for several days. It was one of those page-a-day calendars, a free gift from some drug rep. It hung on the fridge by the grocery list, declaring it was July 8th. Isobelle frowned and ripped off the page. 

July 8th. 

Five days ago.

__

Damn. 

July 9th stared at her. That day hadn't been any better. She'd spent it hiding in her room, trying to avoid the vampire that sat guard at her bedroom door. That was the day everything had hurt - moving, breathing, blinking - even sleeping. For hours she had lain, curled on rumpled sheets, wondering how the hell things had gone so wrong. She tore that date off and crumpled the paper in her fist.

July 10th. The hurt had still been there, but thanks to several pints of chocolate ice cream, she had been able to sort through the reasons for her pain, like one would sort a pile of socks. The ache she felt, thinking of what Spike had done to himself, paired nicely with her bitterness over his cowardly inability to deal constructively with his feelings. Her distress over a corrupted moment of tenderness found its mate with her overwhelming sense of anguish that the bastard was probably in love with someone else. She pulled that sheet free and ripped it to bits.

__

Whoever thought a page-a-day calendar was a good, marketable product deserves to have his lungs yanked out through his nose.

July 11th. Just like July 10th, except she did her suffering at work and antacid replaced ice cream as her main source of sustenance.

Rip.

July 12th. That was the day she realized she hadn't set eyes on Spike since they'd slept together. They had done a remarkable job of giving each other space. _Or avoiding one another,_ she thought. She'd waited until dark, when she was sure he'd gone out, to slip into his room. His clothes and what few possessions he'd managed to acquire over the past six weeks were still there. He hadn't left.

She'd sat there a long time, surrounded by his things, by his smell; that was the moment when she'd come the closest to crying. 

She wanted him gone.

__

No, I want him to stay.

She wanted him to suffer the way she was suffering. 

__

No, we've both had enough.

He'd settled for her.

__

No. He chose me.

Rip.

__

Stupid calendar.

July 13th. Today. What little misery was in store now? Was it time for another confrontation - the last one went _so_ well - or for the big, emotional 'I'm sorry I hurt you, please forgive me' extravaganza? It had been so long since her last relationship, she'd forgotten the schedule of events for lovers' quarrels.

It didn't matter. She didn't want to be part of either of those scenarios. Grand gestures meant little to her. Spike didn't seem to fare well with them either; his whole soul quest hadn't work out like he had hoped.

She looked down. Five days sat shredded in her palms. She was no closer to working out her feelings for Spike, and he hadn't made any move to clarify his own.

She dumped the ruined paper in the proper recyclable box and made another tour of the kitchen. She rinsed her dirty coffee mug in the sink and began to dry it. She turned to go to the cupboard when a small movement caught her eye. She looked down at the tiled floor and froze. The mug slipped from her hand and shattered.

~+~

Spike was in his room, trying to sleep. He could hear Isobelle rattling around in the kitchen, pretending to cook or to clean, frittering away time. It felt like forever since they had spoken; their last words to each other rattled in his head, picking at his conscience, bruising his soul. He could go down there now and try to talk to her, but he had no clue what he would say.

__

You could say you're sorry. That you want her. Please forgive me. 

No. Not enough. He had to come up with some way to show her that he cared and wanted her.

He heard the crash. 

He sat up, listening hard. Nothing. He settled back into bed with a sigh; she'd knocked something over, or dropped whatever she'd been holding. No big deal.

Then he sensed it. 

Fear. 

Her fear.

He bolted out of the room and flew down the stairs, grabbing the first weapon he could find, a silver candlestick from the hall table. He skittered into the kitchen and stopped short at the island, brandishing the ornament like a club.

Isobelle stood on the other side of the island. She didn't look towards Spike, ignoring his dramatic entrance; instead, her wide-eyed gaze was fixed on something on the floor.

Without lowering the candlestick, Spike edged his way around the island, searching for whatever had her so scared. Tension knotted his muscles as he ever-so-carefully crept closer to…

__

Bloody hell.

He set the candlestick down on the island and sighed in relief. Scuttling across the tile floor was a brown house spider. For the first time in days, he felt a grin tug at the corner of his mouth. He looked up at Isobelle, hoping to share the moment with her. The grin faded fast when he saw the dread in her eyes. She was frozen in place. 

She was terrified.

Spike didn't hesitate. He stepped forward and crushed the offender under his heel. He forgot he wasn't wearing boots and grimaced at the mushy sensation beneath his foot.

Isobelle took a shuddering breath, her whole body shaking as she succumbed to the adrenaline running through her veins. She watched Spike peel off his socks and throw them in the garbage, then wash his hands.

He went over to her and reached out to touch her arm; thinking better of it, he simply graced her with a small smile and headed back to the stairs.

His surprise was evident when Isobelle caught him at the landing, wrapping her fingers around the sleeve of his shirt. For a moment, all they did was look at one another.

Then, Isobelle leaned over and kissed him.

~+~

Sometimes, it was the small gestures that meant the most.

Spike tugged gingerly at the bed sheet, trying to slip the twisted bit of linen from under Isobelle's arm. She stirred in her sleep, a hint of a smile on her lips. He set the half-empty water glass on the bedside table and crawled back into their bed. He gathered her close to his body, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead as she snuggled into his embrace. The red numerals of the digital clock glinted at him from her side of the bed. He did a little calculation in his head. 

__

Five days, fourteen hours, thirty-seven minutes.

He'd waited that long for his moment. He hadn't failed.

He buried his nose in her hair and closed his eyes.

Time to start counting again.

__

One minute…


	10. Contemplation

Archive: If you like. Just let me know where!

Disclaimer: Joss' toys. Just playing. Don't sue me! I have nothing you want.

Thanks to my wonderful Betas Sylvia and Kristen, who keep me on track, literate and allow for indulging in girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.

E-mail: spikeswillingslave@yahoo.ca

A/N: For those of you invested in my little story, I apologize for the delay in updates. RL has been quite trying these past few weeks, not just for me, but for my lovely Beta, Sylvia, as well. Again, I would like to thank everyone who has taken the time to send those wonderful reviews; the feedback has been inspiring! I hope you like this chapter ~ it was a long time in coming!

This set of chapters will be winding up soon. The summer can only last so long L . I have been toying with the idea of a sequel, an AU S7, in hopes of providing some closure to my OC, as well as to dampen some of my hurt and disappointment of the finale. 

~+~

Spike threw his book on the coffee table and sighed. This wasn't working. He had spent the better part of an hour reading (and re-reading) the first few chapters, trying to lose himself in the narrative, with no success. He slumped against the cushions of the sofa and closed his eyes. The house was so quiet it made his ears hum. _So, this is what they mean by 'deafening silence',_ he mused. Bored and restless - and alone for the night - he had made every attempt at distraction: television, books, music - but nothing worked, leaving him even more unsettled.

The clock in the hallway sounded the hour; ten resonant tones echoed off the walls. _Christ, it's not even midnight. _He got up from the sofa and wandered through the rooms. If he couldn't engage his brain, perhaps meeting his more basic needs would help pass the time. 

__

Now, children, there are three Fs to vampire behaviour…

The words played in his mind like a sound reel; points of a lecture being read to students by an earnest professor. Oddly, the voice reciting the words wasn't his, but Giles'. Spike wondered for a moment how the Council trained their Watchers. Maybe he should write some notes out for dear Giles on the reality of vampire deportment.

__

Feeding. 

Spike wasn't hungry, but he did a quick inventory of the refrigerator's contents anyway. Blood, milk, eggs… nothing exciting. He looked closer, seeing a small yellow container near the back. He dug it out and grinned. 

Chocolate sauce. 

He'd have a use for that… later.

__

And that, dear children, leads us to…

Fornicating.

Aw, get with it, Rupert, he chided the brittle voice in his head, _It's not 'fornicating', it's 'fucking'._ He jogged up the stairs and entered the room he now shared with Isobelle. The queen-size sleigh bed was unmade, the sheets bunched and rumpled, pillows scattered from headboard to foot. He crawled into the tangled linen and gathered an armful of pillows to his chest. He breathed deeply, drawing Isobelle's scent into his lungs. The delicate, vanilla notes she left behind were mixed with the earthier, sandalwood smell that belonged to him. The bed was their haven, a place to feel warm and pleasured and safe. They talked, laughed, and explored each other's bodies there, secure from the world and the realities of life. The only thing he loved more than falling asleep, ensnared in her limbs and swaddled by linen, was waking up in similar fashion, bodies and sheets sticky with sweat and saliva and other, sweeter things. 

__

Fornicating. 

Fucking.

He frowned. 

Poor, sensitive William knocked around inside, affronted by the vulgarity of the words, and their cheapening of the blissful act he shared with…

__

Oh, knock it off, milksop, he warned his other self. _Take off the rosy glasses and appreciate what you truly got here. _

Their relationship was adult, messy, lusty and fun, running the spectrum from Harlequinesque, soul-stirring lovemaking to hot, greedy sex. Isobelle's mortal libido surprised him, taking all he gave and giving him back, generous and unrestrained, everything she had - if not more. Memories of a recent night slid through his mind, one where they had spent hours making each other shudder and moan until, exhausted, she'd curled her back tightly against his chest and settled down to sleep. He'd held her close as she'd drifted off, spooned into him, her heartbeat slowing to a steady thrum. He was still hungry for her; hard and ready, he'd wanted her to wake up, so that he could have her one more time. He'd suffered it out for a while, lying in the dark, before reluctantly deciding to slip away to the bathroom. Before he could, though, Isobelle had twisted in his arms, brushed her lips across his and rolled him onto his back. She'd kissed her way down his body and had taken him in her mouth, blunting his need, drinking him in when he'd spilled his release down her throat. 

When it was over, she'd crawled back up to him, tucked her head under his chin and wished him goodnight.

It hadn't been a reward, or a coercion; there had been no reluctance or disgust, no subjugation of body or will. He hadn't been serviced; he'd been fulfilled.

__

Fornicating.

Fucking.

William whined inside. 

He'd have to come up with a better word.

__

And, little ones, with the demon's baser needs now satisfied, it moves on to its last motivation…

Fighting.

Now, that wasn't a bad idea at all. Take the demon off its leash and let it stretch its legs.

He rolled off the bed and bounded back down the stairs. He pulled on his Docs and grabbed his keys from the hall table before heading into the kitchen. 

__

Crack a few heads, dust a few vamps - just the thing to pass the time. 

He kept a stash of stakes on the back veranda, well out of Isobelle's way. She wasn't comfortable with Spike patrolling alone, but hadn't made any demands on him to stop. By keeping his weapons stored out here, instead of inside the house, it was easier for him to separate his demon-driven need to hunt from the newer world of patience and kindness he was making with her.

He had barely cracked open the door when a blond blur shot between his feet.

"Oh no you don't," he growled, grabbing the kitten by the scruff of the neck. "You do _not_ go outside."

The kitten squirmed in his grasp and gave a few feeble mewls of displeasure. Spike held the animal up to his face and gave him a stare. Dante stilled immediately, his green eyes fixed on the vampire's steady blue gaze.

"The lady of the house sets the rules mate," he said, "And she says, from now on, you're an indoor kitty." Dante _miaowed_ once, punctuating his reply by aiming a clawed paw at Spike's nose. Spike dodged it easily and set the animal down on the tiled floor. "No use takin' it out on me," he grumbled, "She sets rules for me, too,"

He turned to the door and prepared to leave, when something latched onto his leg.

"Bloody hell!" he hissed. Four sets of needle-sharp claws pierced the denim of his jeans and dug into his left calf. "Get off, you stupid cat!" 

Spike stomped hard on the floor, trying to shake Dante loose, but the kitten hung on. Spike cursed again as the tiny claws raked his skin; he could feel drops of blood slither down his leg. 

"I said, 'let go', or I'll make a meal out of you!" He reached down and pried Dante off, setting the angry kitten down - none-too-gently - on the counter. "I've got bigger things to deal with than you, so bugger off already!"

Spike stalked to the door, nearly hauling it off its hinges as he yanked it open. One boot had hit the planks of the veranda before the sound of the telephone stopped him cold. 

"Unfucking believable!"

He waited a moment, debating whether or not to let the answering machine pick up. At the last second, he decided to answer.

" 'lo?" he said tersely.

"Hi! It's just me."

Like the toll of Pavlov's dinner bell, the sound of Isobelle's voice dampened his aggravation. 

"Hey," he replied, tone softening. "How's your night going?"

"Busy, as usual. But, we had a lull in the chaos, so I thought… "

"You'd call and check up on me?"

"No, I thought I'd call and say 'hi'. What's the problem? You got a hot date I don't know about?"

"No - and no problem. I was just on my way out the door, is all… "

__

Oops. 

"I didn't know you were planning on going out."

__

Damn.

"I wasn't… 'planning'. Just sorta… decided."

"Oh."

A quiet minute ticked by.

"Something you'd like to say about it, luv?" 

He listened to her fidget on the other end of the line. He pictured her, twisting the telephone cord around her fingers, her mind running an inventory of reasons against his patrolling alone.

She sighed. 

"No. Just be careful. And, I expect waffles in the morning."

His grin returned. "With chocolate sauce?"

"And whipped crème."

Breakfast sounded promising.

"It'll be ready and waiting for you."

They said 'good night' and Spike hung up the phone. 

"Alright, let's try this again." He turned towards the door, patting his pockets to make sure he still had his keys. "Don't wait up for me, cat. This could be a long night."

~+~

Isobelle sat in the worn easy chair, the phone still pressed to her ear. The dial tone droned dully through the receiver, its monotone _buzz_ bouncing through her brain, teasing out the start of a headache. She closed her eyes against the growing pain and tried to pretend that Spike was still on the other end of the line, that the dead air filling her head was his voice. He was safe at home - not prowling the streets, picking one of those righteous fights that he felt cemented his purpose and gave him license to exist. 

__

That'll do. Let's run with that awhile.

She indulged in her little fantasy for a few seconds more, until a recorded message demanded she either hang up, or dial out again. Returning the handset to its cradle, she curled into the crushed foam and sprung coils of the chair and surveyed the empty on-call lounge. Fluorescent bulbs blasted fake, white light through the room, highlighting the dinginess and clutter surrounding her. A couple of cheap, metal cots were shoved along one wall, messily dressed with over-starched hospital sheets. Dirty dishes were stacked, Pisa-like, in the sink, while the coffee maker sizzled and snapped as it kept the hours-old brew hot and bitter. Newspapers and magazines littered someone's cast-off kitchen table - a generous donation at the time - its cracked, orange Formica top a match for the rest of the furniture in the room, with its depressing, used shabbiness. 

Dispirited by the sight, headache aggravated by the brightness from above, Isobelle crawled out of the chair and turned the fluorescents off. She retreated to one of the cots and propped herself against the wall, resting her brow on her knees. Her pager had been mercifully silent for nearly half an hour now, but she sensed her respite from 'the pit' - one of the more polite insider terms for the ER - would be short-lived. Through the lounge's dented door, down the long, green, linoleum-tiled hallway, she could sense the tension and hum of the emergency room. She usually fed off the energy of the department, the controlled panic and anarchy of the place keeping her hopping and sharp. Tonight, it sucked the life out of her, leaving her edgy and distracted, allowing her fears for Spike, on his lonely patrol, to run roughshod over her nerves, tweaking her imagination with horrible scenarios…

__

Not helpful, she chastised. _Focus. Quit worrying. You've got a job to do._

A job. Her job. Sitting in a crappy call room, waiting to be paged, summoned like one would call a waiter for a glass of water, to fix all the hurt and broken people that kicked, crawled, or were wheeled in through the doors.

She thought about that for a moment. Broken people. She fixed broken people. Fixed them with medicines and needles and knives and plaster, sewed up the gashes and narcotized them against the pain. That's what Spike had been, in the beginning; another broken person needing to be fixed. Disenfranchised and utterly alone, no-one had ever struck her as needing as much help as he had: silent and sullen, dripping diesel and seawater, angry fear pushing away her helping hand until he had been too beaten and debased to continue along his road. And it wasn't balms, or potions, or bandages he had required, but time. Patience. Attention. It wasn't cleaning his wounds, dressing his burns - the manual 'doing' of healing, which was her skill and her crutch - but _her _that had been necessary for his conciliation. 

That realization both thrilled and frightened her. She had been alone for so long, relying on nothing but her brains and resolve to get her from one day to the next, that she had forgotten what it meant to connect with someone. She helped, she treated, she prescribed, held hands and said all the right, soothing things, but the satisfaction she received had felt hollow and empty; until now. Never had the artifact of her work returned to her one thousandth of the joy she had gotten from being there for Spike. Hints of the man he was becoming had bled through his cracked armour and reached out to her; the beauty of what she saw screamed at her to take hold and not let go. 

But therein lay the fear, the longing, and the panic that currently played with her imagination. The man in the demon chrysalis still had the demon's sensibilities to balance against the demands of a soul. That was part of Spike's drive to patrol. He had tried to explain it to her, this necessity to put himself on the line, to risk losing what he had fought so hard to attain; she had let it go, on the faith that his reasons were good ones and were best kept in his own council. She didn't understand it, but she respected it, fully accepting that by _not_ understanding his motivations, she left herself open to the chilling fear that accompanied the insoluble. Fear that he would be hurt, that he would be lost to her, that there was a part of him that didn't need her. Fear, that after he was 'done', when the chrysalis broke and the fully-realized man shone through, that she would become redundant and shed, along with the cocoon. 

That he would be gone and she would be alone.

Again.

The _whump_ of the lounge door being thrown open snapped her back to the present. A nameless intern sighed in relief at the sight of her.

"There you are. We've been paging you for five minutes."

The trill of her pager suddenly became painfully loud. Her headache still throbbed and she quickly silenced her device.

"Sorry," she muttered, climbing off the cot and smoothing her clothes. "I must have dozed off. Slept through it."

The intern blinked, unsure of how to respond; it wasn't every day a senior staff member apologized to a grunt like himself. He settled on nodding and urging her out the door.

"It's a zoo out there," he warned.

Isobelle shrugged and secured her stethoscope around her neck. 

"It's the job." 

~+~

Spike staggered into the kitchen and dropped to the tiled floor. He lay there, flat on his back, limbs splayed in all directions, blindly kicking until his boot hit the door, slamming it shut.

"Bloody awesome," he groaned. 

Two more piles of dust littered the park tonight, courtesy of him. Patrol hadn't been promising, at first. He had prowled the usual haunts - the graveyards, the docks, a few of the seedier bars - with no luck. The park was his last resort. He had skulked amongst the trees and shrubs, noting the abundance of stupid, moon-eyed lovers snogging in the copses or macking sloppily on benches. With so many people around, it was either going to be a demon bust, or a demon feast. 

The latter turned out to be true when he finally spotted a pair of vamps in hunt mode, stalking a small group of bar-hopping, soon-to-be entrees. With barely restrained enthusiasm - and little foreplay - he had quickly sent one vamp to his dusty fate. His partner had been less cooperative. As the drunken buffet of victims scattered, screaming into the night, the other vamp threw himself fully into the fight with Spike. He'd played with this one a bit, blocking blow after blow, then delivering his own punishing punch or kick. 

The sound of tiny nails clicking on the tiles drew his attention, as Dante scampered over and jumped onto his chest. 

"Dammit, cat," he hissed, as the animal aggravated a cracked rib. "For a three-pound scrap of nothing, that fucking well hurt."

Dante tilted his little head, blinking at the vampire.

"Too bad you couldn't be out on the prowl tonight, cat. Missed a fun bit of violence."

The kitten shifted his weight, pressing his paws right over the damaged rib.

"OW! Christ. Alright, the violence was fairly shared."

Aside from the injured rib, Spike knew there were bruises forming on his arms from blocking punches, not to mention the small split in his lip, courtesy of one of the few swings that had gotten through his defenses. 

"Quit starin' at me like that. You know that if you'd had the chance, you woulda been out there moling, or voling, or whatever it is wee beasts like you hunt in the night."

"_Mreoup_."

"Talk back all you want. You're a lucky bugger. You don't need to go all 'animal instinct' to get through your day. You got it all right here: nice house to roam in, a full belly every night, a sweet little mistress to scratch your ears and cuddle you close… "

Spike stared back at the cat. Big eyes blinked at him.

"Yeah, okay, that sounds familiar. I've been singing that song myself. Trouble is, kitty, I'm not blind to the bigger picture anymore. The 'want' and the 'need' are fine and dandy; it's the 'having' that's a bitch."

More blinking. Dante tucked his paws in and lay down on Spike's chest.

"You're still all you were," he said, rubbing the kitten's head. "The pure animal. Simple motivations for simple needs. My problem - and it's a lovely one - is I wanted more than I deserved. Thought I had gotten it, too, 'til that rug was whipped out from under me and I fell on my ass. So, I sullied my already-tainted beast with another smear of humanity. Now, I still have the 'want'; those demands just burn more now. Wanna know why?" He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I got a taste of the 'having'; the pure, undiluted satisfaction of fulfillment. And it hurts. Hurts because I want it and it feels so fucking… _good_. That's what our mistress doesn't understand. She gives it so freely, but I need to be earning my piece. And my peace."

Dante stretched and hopped off Spike's chest. He watched the kitten pad away.

"Okay, you furball. If I didn't make any bloody sense, sue me. No need to totter off with your tail in the air. I'm done explaining myself."

Spike stayed splayed on the floor, sulking a bit. His impromptu psychoanalysis session had killed the buzz of his successful patrol. His ribs hurt and his arms started to ache as the bruising set in. He was about to haul himself up when Dante clicked his way back into the kitchen. Crammed in his mouth was one of the several catnip-filled toys that were scattered around the house. Climbing back on top of Spike, Dante dropped the prize and gave a loud _miaow_. Spike started laughing, breath catching as his ribs grated with the strain. He ruffled the kitten's golden fur and Dante began to purr.

~+~

Isobelle climbed the stairs to the back door, feet falling heavily on the wooden boards of the veranda. Her night had been hell. Not because it was busy - she was used to that; used to the crowds, the noise, and the general upheaval of an urban care centre. What had put her through the ringer was her inability to get in touch with Spike. She had called home three times and she had gotten her answering machine with every call. She'd rationalized each failed attempt at contact: she'd called too early and he was still patrolling; he was in the shower and didn't hear the phone; he was beating eggs for the waffle batter and couldn't pick up the phone…

__

Or he's dead and dusted somewhere and I'll never know what happened… 

The sun had started to rise half an hour ago. The early morning rays filtered through the trees and warmed the back of her neck. She reached out and gripped the doorknob, taking a steadying breath before twisting it and entering her kitchen.

Her heart spasmed in her chest as she surveyed the empty room. There were no plates on the breakfast table, no bowls of batter or mess of flour on the island. The place was quiet and still. She stood in the middle of that stillness, light-headed with panic. Her worst fears bubbled back to the surface and she forced her legs to move, stiffly putting one foot in front of the other, stumbling through her office and into the living room, searching for any sign of Spike. He wasn't at the computer, or stretched out on the sofa. 

With more urgent strides, she took the stairs, two at a time, up to the bedrooms. She passed the open door of the bathroom; like the kitchen, it, too, was empty. The shower stall was dry and there were no wet towels on the floor.

She turned towards their bedroom door. It was ajar, diffuse, harmless sunlight glowing from inside the room, through to the hall. Blood roared in her ears as she went over and pushed the door open.

A pile of dusty clothes had been kicked into one corner. Spike was curled on his side, in the centre of the bed, the sheets covering him from the waist down. Isobelle saw the blush of a bruise spread over the left side of his chest. A few more purple blotches were scattered over his arm. Tucked under his chin was Dante. Both were asleep, the picture of peace.

Weak with relief, Isobelle swallowed back grateful tears.

__

We both made it through another night.

She shed her clothes and slipped into bed, pressing her chest against his back and burying her face in his neck. He stirred when she kissed the skin under her lips.

"You're home," he said sleepily. She kissed his cheek and snuggled closer.

"Yeah, just now."

"Damn, what time is it?" he asked. "Breakfast. I forgot… "

"Don't worry about it. I'm not hungry."

"Yeah, but I'd promised… "

__

Whipped crème. Chocolate sauce.

Spike's ribs protested at the thought.

"I just want to lie here, okay? Let's just go to sleep."

She watched as he closed his eyes and fell back to sleep, the kitten purring against his chest. She gathered the sheets around them and held her lover close. She indulged in the contentment of the moment and let herself drift off to sleep.

__


	11. Concession

Archive: If you like. Just let me know where!

Disclaimer: Joss' toys. Just playing. Don't sue me! I have nothing you want.

Thanks to my wonderful Betas Sylvia and Kristen, who keep me on track, literate and allow for indulging in girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.

E-mail: spikeswillingslave@yahoo.ca

A/N: Small jaunt into 'lightness'; or at least, being 'lighter' in tone. If it works, 'YAY'! If not, you know how to complain… J 

~+~

__

My life is just too interesting for words.

The thought wandered through Isobelle's mind as she stood in the doorway, taking in the sight on the kitchen floor. 

Spike was sprawled, belly down, across the tiles, feet waggling idly in the air. Dante paced back and forth in front of Spike's cupped hands, darting forward once, then twice, swatting the vampire's laced fingers, jumping backwards after each volley.

"Patience, mate," Spike cautioned. "Get too worked up and your supper can get away from you." 

Dante gave a small, throaty growl, then hunkered down in front of Spike. Nose close to the floor, tail high and twitching, the little cat stared, wide-eyed, as Spike slowly opened his hands. 

Out sprang the largest grasshopper Isobelle had ever seen. 

Dante launched himself at his quarry, missing the insect by millimetres as it vaulted over his head. Both predator and prey careened around the kitchen, clattering the cupboards as they ricocheted off the doors. Spike cheered on the pursuit, giving a whoop of victory as the sound of a wet _crunch _came from behind the island. Isobelle grimaced. Dante strolled back into view, licking his whiskers. He sauntered over to Spike, purring, butting his head hard against the vampire's chin.

"That's my boy," Spike praised, ruffling Dante's ears. 

"What do you think you're doing?"

Spike glanced up with a smile. "Teaching the little nipper how to hunt."

"By releasing bugs in my kitchen?"

"Well, yeah. He can't go outside - for some reason… "

"And he never will… " she added.

" …so the buggies have to come to him. Brilliant stalker, he is. Got 'em all."

Spike pushed himself up, off the floor and went to Isobelle. He reached out to touch her cheek, but she pulled away.

"Uh-uh," she intoned. "You've got grasshopper cooties all over those fingers. You're not coming near me."

He sighed in mock irritation, going to the sink and scrubbing his hands under the hot water, making a big production of lathering and rinsing, then drying them on the tail of his shirt. He held them up for her approval; she signaled her satisfaction with a smile, leaning in eagerly as he took her face in his palms and drew her closer for a kiss. Soft and wet, his lips lingered on hers. One kiss from him and her head was swimming.

"That was nice," she murmured. "Makes coming home worthwhile."

"Glad to oblige."

"Well, oblige me this," she said, tapping a finger on his chest, "Quit bringing bugs into my kitchen. It's icky."

"_Pfft,_ icky. You're just a 'fraidy cat, is all. You've got insect issues."

"Fine, you're right. Bugs scare me. Keep 'em outta my house."

He snickered. "They're smaller than you, 'belle. Just tromp on them."

She tapped him harder. "Nothing with more than four legs gets in here, understand?"

"Zero to four legs is fine?"

"Yep."

"Snakes?"

"Love 'em."

"Snob."

She giggled and gave him another quick kiss. "Speaking of snobs," she said, going over to her backpack, "how up-to-date are you on your Emily Post?" She dug around, rifling through papers and books. She eventually pulled out an envelope and handed it to Spike. The words _Isobelle S. Jones and Guest_ were inscribed in black across the front. 

The thick, cream-coloured stationary felt soft and heavy in his hand, the cotton fibres, woven within the pulp, adding texture to the silky paper. The card slid from the envelope with a whisper, the crest of the local hospital detailed in red on the front. Its spine popped crisply as he flicked it open. 

"It's a yearly thing they do - for the board and staff. I've never been invited before. Getting invited is supposedly a big deal."

He read the notation slowly - twice - before returning the invitation to Isobelle.

"Have a good time."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, 'have a good time'. Isn't that the polite thing to say?"

"Did you not see the _'and Guest'_ part?"

"Yeah, I saw it. So?"

"So… you're going with me."

Spike gave her a tight smile and shook his head. She mimicked the action, then shrugged her shoulders in confusion.

"You won't come?"

"No."

She fidgeted with the invitation. Seconds ticked by as they stood there in uncomfortable silence. 

"You mind telling me why not?" Isobelle eventually asked. 

Spike tapped the card, which she now held tightly, in her fist. "You _did _read this, right?" She nodded, unsure of where he was going. He pulled it out of her grip and waved it in front of her.

"This is work-related. Your boss, your boss's boss, all your little minions and peers and their nearest and dearest?" He glanced again at the text. "Formal, no less."

"Yes," she replied, still confused. "Yes to all of it. Why?" 

"You don't need me in that part of your world, 'belle."

"I don't _need_ you there, I _want_ you there." She attempted a smile. "Besides, I think you meet one of the guest criteria."

"Minion?"

"Try again."

Spike eyed her warily. "That's a whole other conversation, Isobelle."

Her weak smile faded. "Then why don't you just cut to the chase and tell me the problem."

"It's… people. Real people. People that I'll have to be pleasant and polite to, that I'll have to worry about pissing off and… " He threw the invitation down on the counter. "I'm not ready for that."

"Ready for what? You go out nearly every night, patrolling. I know you go to bars. You're around other people all the time… "

"It's not the same thing," he interrupted. 

"How is it different?"

"Goin' out, those folks - I don't know them, they don't know me. It works out nicely. But this - 'event' - you want to drag me to - you _know_ these people. I don't want to have to try and 'fit in' and deal with all that."

"Poor dear," she snipped. "I didn't realize going to a stupid cocktail party would cause you so much angst."

"Don't be flip, Isobelle. It doesn't suit you. Besides, did you give any thought whatsoever as how you were going to introduce me? 'Hey, this is Spike, the raving loon I took in two months ago'. That'd go over well. Impress your pals real good."

"Oh, so _that's_ it," Isobelle said. "I'm getting this now. You're shy."

"Don't be stupid," he huffed.

"You are! That's cute. Get over it."

"No. I'm not going. Spike doesn't play well with others and I only like crowds when I can hunt in 'em. So stop asking."

"This is important, Spike. This party is… like I said; to be invited is a _huge_ deal. It means I'm making a good impression on the Powers that Be. I _have_ to go, but I don't want to go alone."

"If it's that important, all the more reason for me to stay away."

"Fine. If you can't do this one thing for me… "

" 'belle, that's _not_ fair. It's… you're the only person I can_ stand _to be around right now. Anything else… it's just too damn hard."

"Wow. Sorry I brought it up." She picked up the invitation and tucked it inside a drawer. "I'll go by myself, then. I don' t want to put you out."

"Isobelle… "

"Sun's going down. You're patrolling, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, don't let me keep you." Isobelle pushed by him and headed upstairs. Spike heard the bedroom door slam shut.

__

Nice job. You handled that well.

Dante sidled over and twined around Spike's leg. "I'm gonna pay for this," he told the cat. "Got any advice?" Dante looked up and miaowed. 

"Didn't think so."

~+~

Spike drew back his hand and delivered a vicious blow to his opponent's jaw, snapping the hapless vamp's head back with a satisfying _crack_. The vamp staggered and fell to the ground.

" …And _then_ she had the nerve to say - in her passive-aggressive, little brat way - 'If you can't do this one thing for me… '. Shit, like it's _nothing_!" Spike stomped over and kicked his target in the ribs. "Women!"

"Hey, pal," the vamp croaked, rolling away from Spike's boots. "Maybe you should be taking this out on your honey and not me."

"The last time I tried to hang with a girl's friends - complete disaster. Not that it was my fault, mind you, but a fella couldn't even be _himself_ without the little miss givin' him the evil eye."

The vamp tried to get to his feet, but one smooth roundhouse from Spike sent him crashing back to the dirt. Another solid kick to his ribs kept him down. Spike circled the supine vamp, still deep in his tirade.

"And this isn't some bloomin' birthday party, either. This is _work_. This is… grown-up stuff."

"It's all bad," the vamp groaned. "C'mon, man. I'm on your side. Gimme a break."

"Shut up."

Spike looked down at the beaten lump by his feet; his target had been thoroughly trashed. Blood trickled from the vamp's mouth and nose. His eyes were blackened and there were cuts across his brow. Spike backed off slightly, trying to rein in his temper.

"It's just too bloody much to expect, don't you think?"

The vamp blinked up at Spike, wondering which answer would put an end to the thrashing.

"Yeah," the vamp moaned, tentatively. "No bitch is worth… a cocktail party?"

Spike narrowed his eyes and stalked back to his prey. Grabbing a fistful of shirt, he dragged the vamp to his feet and slammed him against a tree.

"What did you just say?"

The vamp wavered. "Uh… 'cocktail party'?"

"Before that."

"Oh. Uh… hey man, I'm sure she's a swell gal. Real sweet, great in the sack and everything… "

"You're not helping yourself," Spike growled, sending another blow to the vamp's nose. 

"OW! Quit it! Go, don't go - who gives a shit, right? They're just humans. Not like they're anything special. Fuck'em, man."

Spike reached behind his back, pulled a stake from the waist of his jeans and considered the vamp's words. 

__

Just humans.

"You know mate, I think you've got a point. Fuck'em."

The vamp nodded vigorously, hoping he had earned a pass. His hope faded as he watched Spike draw back his arm and aim the stake at his heart.

"Out of the mouths of dust," Spike said, driving the stake home.

"Damn," the vamp muttered, before exploding in the air.

~+~

Isobelle stifled a yawn and tossed the TV remote onto the sofa. It was well after midnight and Spike still hadn't returned from patrol. Equal measures of irritation and worry had kept her sequestered in the den; as tired as she was, she wouldn't have slept had she gone to bed. 

Guilt, also, would have kept her awake; she felt badly about the way she had spoken to Spike. It hadn't occurred to her that the ease he displayed around her was due solely to their close relationship, and not to any psychological or social growth in dealing with his souled status. Having been a slave to his demon for so long, the idea of following societal rules and 'fitting in' with others had to be a novel and frightening one. He'd told her he had been turned following a party, after having been rejected by the object of his affection. Crowds might never have been comfortable for him, unless he was out on the prowl, searching for his next…

She didn't finish the thought. That was the past - she hoped. Spike had made a conscious choice about his future when he sought the return of his soul. Whether he wanted to accept it or not, part of that future involved interacting with other people. He patrolled, he went to bars - he surrounded himself with life and humanity, but still he stayed on the periphery of society, a true exemplar of one who was always alone in a crowd. He was an observer of life; he indulged in its benefits when he was able to, enjoyed some of what it had to offer, but remained unbound to the coil - dissociated, yet stuck within the mass of life.

Besides, there was something fundamentally wrong about Spike interacting only with her; whatever their relationship was becoming, she wasn't comfortable being his sole companion and connection to the coil.

__

For God's sake, she chastised. _A little anger, a little fatigue, and you start channeling your behavioural psych professor. Get over yourself. _

She heard a key turn in the back door, the lock _cracking_ as it unlatched. Scampering sounds told her Dante was making his habitual run for freedom; she waited, knowing what was coming next.

"GOTCHA!" Spike's voice echoed from the kitchen. "You keep tryin', cat, and you keep failin'. You'll never get past me."

Isobelle grabbed a magazine from the coffee table and pretended to read. He sauntered into the den, Dante, a limp ball of purring fur in his arms.

"You wait up for me?" he asked, joining her on the sofa. She edged away slightly and kept her focus on the magazine. Last year's fall fashions were suddenly very interesting.

"Nope. Just couldn't sleep."

"Hm. Need a little help gettin' tuckered out?" 

He leaned in to nuzzle her neck, but she squirmed and pushed him away.

"Knock it off. You're all dusty," she complained.

"Hazard of the gig. Bagged a baddie tonight."

"Good for you."

"What? Are you still pissed about earlier?"

"I'm not mad," she replied, the magazine pages snapping as they were turned.

Spike inched closer. Isobelle kept shifting away, retreating down the sofa, until she found herself pinned between the arm and Spike's body.

"Show me then," he purred, nipping her earlobe.

"Hey, you're still dusty," she protested. "You're making me itch."

"In a good way?"

"No!" The magazine slid to the floor as she got to her feet. "I'm going to bed."

"Good idea," he enthused, following her to the stairs.

"I'm going to bed, _to sleep_," she clarified. 

"That's no fun. Let me jump in the shower, get all squeaky-clean, then you can make me dirty again." He arched an eyebrow and sent her what she assumed was a 'come hither' look.

"What is your problem? I'm still mad at you! Knock off the cheap seduction!"

"But, 'belle," he whined, grabbing hold of her hand, "You said before you weren't mad."

"Of course I said I wasn't mad! I'm not going to tell you I'm mad when you ask me if I'm mad! You're supposed to know I'm mad! God, after 126 years, you think you'd have learned a thing or two about women! I can't believe…"

She stopped in mid-sentence as Spike started to shake.

"What is it?" 

"God," he choked, eyes sparkling. "You're so cute when you're ticked." 

Her jaw dropped. "You're laughing at me!"

"Yes, I am. You're priceless, 'belle."

With a glare, she turned on her heel and stomped up the stairs.

"Oh, come on," he said, catching up to her. He stood a couple of stairs below her, so that he had to look up to meet her eyes. "Just… look at you. All huffy and bent out of shape because I won't go to some nancy wine sipping 'do. Did you really think I'd go, rubbin' elbows with all your friends?"

Isobelle crossed her arms over her chest. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I asked you."

He sobered at that statement. " 'belle, I'm learnin' my limits here, and hobnobbing with your gang is _waaay_ beyond them."

"Well," she replied, voice softer, less aggravated. "I had to at least ask, right?"

"What do you mean?"

She dropped her defensive posture, letting her arms hang loosely at her side. "How would you have felt if I hadn't told you at all? What if… what if I'd had gone, without bothering to ask you to join me? Would you have been relieved, or felt left out?"

"I… uh… " he stammered, thrown by the question. He'd never considered that scenario. The idea that she would exclude him from some aspect of her life was more of a shock to him than her invitation had been; even entertaining the notion hurt him deeply, more than he would have thought.

"Bugger. How the hell do you do that?"

She shrugged. "It's a gift," she replied. He watched her climb the rest of the stairs and slip from view into the bedroom.

"Women," he muttered, heading off to the shower.

~+~

Isobelle padded around the bedroom, listening to the muffled sound of the shower, as she prepared for sleep. She pulled a nightshirt on over her head, wondering why she even bothered with sleepwear anymore; at least half the time, whatever she wore wound up at the foot of the bed, pushed to the floor, or - on occasion - thrown across the room. Still, she went through the ritual of putting on nightclothes, setting the alarm clock and checking for felines, before climbing between clean cotton sheets and settling to sleep.

She turned off the bedside lamp and waited, lying in the dark for a long while, until, finally, the shower was turned off. She closed her eyes and focused on the sounds from beyond the bedroom. Rattling towel racks, heavy footfalls and creaking doors providing by-play of his own nightly ritual. 

He slipped in beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight. Artificial heat - a by-product of the long shower - emanated from his body, making her sweat under the covers. She felt him twist onto his side. She sensed him watching her, his unseen gaze sending tingles down her spine.

"You awake?"

"You know I am," she answered.

"You still mad?"

She sighed. "Didn't we cover the whole 'asking if I'm still mad' thing earlier?"

"Yeah, but I'm expecting a straighter answer this time."

"No," she replied. "I'm not mad anymore."

"Good."

A few moments passed.

" 'belle?"

"Hm?"

"Would you have really done that?" he asked, "Gone and not told me about it?"

__

Damn. I should have never put that thought in his head.

"No," she said, rolling over to face him. "I wouldn't have done that. It would have been dishonest and… frankly, kind of mean, don't you think?"

"When you put it that way, givin' me the idea of you slippin' off like that, it… I have to say, it bothered the hell out of me."

"Made you mad?"

"Made me hurt."

Her smirk was lost in the darkness. "Poor Spike. So sensitive."

"Don't let it get around."

"For what it's worth," she said, sliding into his arms, "I'm sorry I pushed the issue. You shouldn't be made to do anything you don't want to do. And, I'm sorry that my idea hurt you."

He tightened his embrace, pulling her closer. "Made me feel left out. Rejected."

"Rejected?"

He pressed a kiss into her hair. "Beneath you."

"I'm sorry, Spike. None of this was meant to upset you."

"Made me think, though. And, I decided that I'll go with you."

__

God, Spike, you're a treasure.

"You sure? You want to go?"

"No, I don't _want_ to go, but I _will_ go."

"Why?"

Another of his kisses got lost among her curls.

"Because you asked me."

She smiled into his chest.

"Well," she murmured, "now we need to get you a suit… "

~+~


	12. Identity

Archive: If you like. Just let me know where!

Disclaimer: Joss' toys. Just playing. Don't sue me! I have nothing you want.

Thanks to my wonderful Beta Sylvia, who keeps me on track, literate and allows for girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.

E-mail: spikeswillingslave@yahoo.ca

~+~

Isobelle flashed the salesclerk an apologetic smile and checked her watch for the fourth time. There were twenty minutes left until closing time. The small shop was devoid of customers, except for herself and Spike. He'd been cloistered in a dressing room for nearly half an hour. The clerk responded with a cheerless grin - a chilly, pinched smile that never made it to her hazel eyes; it barely masked her boredom and impatience. Isobelle wilted under her stare.

"I'm sure he won't be much longer," Isobelle offered.

"Would you like me to check on him?" She leaned forward over the counter, resting her arms on the highly polished surface. She lingered there, making no effort to leave her post. Her clerk-ly smile was starting to fade as she nodded in the direction of the changing rooms. "Perhaps he needs some… assistance?" 

"No… I'll go. He's… shy." Isobelle turned towards the dressing rooms, missing the clerk rolling her eyes. She wove her way through the aisles, past racks filled with designer-labeled suits and ties. Fine silk, linen and wool were the standard here, the shop being one of the last genuine haberdashers in the city. Outfitted in dark, oiled wood and brass, it was a throwback to the past: replicated gaslight sconces glowed overhead and thick Asian rugs lay scattered over oak floors, muffling her steps.

Four fitting rooms lined the rear of the shop, the doors - all but one - hanging open. She knocked lightly on the one that was closed. Layers of discarded suit coats and trousers were draped over chairs and the stall door. Isobelle frowned at the mess.

"Spike?"

"What?" came the terse reply.

"Do you need any… help?"

"No."

"Are you coming out? Let me see what you have on."

"No."

She sighed. "Why not?"

Spike pulled open the door and strode out, wearing a T-shirt and khakis. "Because I'm not wearin' one of those stupid suits." He yanked the hem of his shirt down over his waist. "Nothin' looked right, anyway."

Isobelle resisted the urge to scold, but couldn't keep the frustration out of her voice. "How do you know none of them looked right? You never came out wearing one! I didn't have a chance to see any of them on you!"

"Then they didn't _feel_ right, okay? Don't need to see them on to know none of them were a fit."

__

Men and shopping, she fumed, watching Spike head for the exit. He tilted his head towards the clerk on his way out. "Ta, love. Thanks for the help."

The sales clerk glared at Isobelle as she followed Spike out to the sidewalk.

"Two days, Spike," she warned. "Two days until… "

"I _know_ that, Isobelle," he said tightly. "You've been draggin' me to shops for three bloody nights now. Why don't you just… back off a bit and let me take care of this?"

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Tell me, oh Wise One, how does someone who can't see his reflection buy clothes?" 

He stood there for a moment, then shook his head. He pressed a hand into the small of her back and steered her towards the car, parked in a tiny lot behind the shop. "Been managing to dress myself for a dozen decades, 'belle. Think I can do this on my own."

"But… but… " she protested, sliding between Spike and the car, blocking his access to the handle on the driver's door. "I'm only trying to help."

"I know, but fixin' me up to look like a tosser isn't 'helping', luv. Now, toddle off home and I'll be there in an hour."

Knowing that arguing would get her nowhere, she moved aside and let him open the driver's door. Settling into the seat, she started the engine. Before she pulled out of the lot, she stuck her head out the window and called out to him.

"Spike, don't you think… "

"GO, 'belle!" he ordered, waving her off.

"Okay, but… "

He stalked towards the car and stuck his head through the open window. "Say 'but' one more time and I'll bite yours."

Isobelle couldn't suppress her giggle. "That's such a non-threat, sweetie." 

In spite of himself, he cracked a grin. She was trying hard to make this easy on him, but her efforts were simply making a tense situation worse. The last thing he wanted to do was go to this affair, but he'd promised to be her escort and he didn't want to break his word. "I know, but humour me. Pretend I scared the pants off you and go. I'll only be an hour."

Sighing in resignation, she shifted into gear. He watched her ease the car into the nighttime traffic and drive out of sight, waiting until the taillights had blended in with the others twinkling in the dark. Turning on a booted heel, he headed back towards the haberdasher's. The door was locked and the lights were off. He rapped sharply on the window; the clerk appeared a few seconds later. Spike waited as she fiddled with the security system, finally unlocking the door and letting him in.

"Thanks for waiting," he said, wandering into the darkened store. "I couldn't get her to leave."

"That's alright," the clerk replied. "I've been busying myself cleaning up the mess out back." She sent him a pointed look, then waved to the small mountain of discarded suits and ties she had retrieved from - and around - the fitting room.

"Sorry, Sylvia." 

Spike kept out of the way as the tall redhead returned the clothing to the racks. Her slender frame, neatly outfitted in a charcoal coatdress, glided silently through the store as she worked. He stumbled upon Sylvia - and her shop - quite by accident, nearly two weeks ago. It had been just another night, with another vamp - unwilling to accept his fate at the end of Spike's stake - running for his unlife, ducking into her shop, seeking his escape. Thinking he'd found a hostage in the beautiful clerk, the vamp lunged at her, just as Spike burst through the door. It was hard to tell who was more surprised in that moment: Sylvia, being faced with a pair of feral, snarling vamps, or the vamps themselves. With a flick of her wrist, both Spike and his target had found themselves frozen in place. Sylvia had slowly edged her way around the pair, examining her would-be attacker and Spike carefully. With a nod towards Spike and a snap of her fingers, she'd freed him from her binding spell, then watched as he went to his quarry and staked him.

And that's how Spike met his first Canadian witch.

"You know," he commented, "being one with the majicks and all, there _is_ an easier way to clean up."

"Now, Spike," Sylvia replied, voice lilting with forced patience, "you know that's a waste of power. Besides, since when is the easiest way the right way?"

"Well, you got me there."

While she tidied, Spike browsed. Bored with suits and ties, he rested his elbows on one of the glass display cases, examining the trinkets inside. Cufflinks in gold and silver, diamond-studded cravat pins, engraved flasks and cigarette holders - high quality merchandise - glittered at him.

"See anything you like?" she asked, sidling up to the case. Spike nodded, eyes still roaming over the shiny items under the glass.

"Lots of things," he murmured. Glancing up, he looked at her and shrugged. "But, what's a fella to do?"

Sylvia grinned. "I've never met a vampire who had problem getting what he wanted."

"I'm reforming. Puts a crimp in the 'take what I want' philosophy."

"That must be rough. I bet 'Little Miss Cutie' makes it easier." 

"She tries," he replied, smiling reflexively at the thought of Isobelle.

"Ah, but does she succeed?"

"Mostly." 

Sylvia looked at Spike, grin still playing on her lips. His smile faded after a few moments. "Well," he amended softly, "some days are better than others."

"Really?"

"Okay, some _hours_ are better than others. It's still a work-in-progress, you know?"

"Oh, God," Sylvia groaned, "let's not go all 'Oprah' here. Save your bellybutton gazing for 'Little Miss Cutie'. Besides," she continued, moving behind the counter, "it's done. Try it on so I can go home."

"It's not like you have to go far," Spike replied, taking the suit she handed him, "You live above the shop."

"Just go put it on. 'Will and Grace' is on in twenty."

Spike headed back to the dressing rooms, picking up a white silk shirt on his way. Sylvia's voice echoed down to him as he closed the door.

"You better be wearing underwear!"

To look at it on the hanger, the suit didn't seem like much: black, clean lines, double-breasted jacket and straight-cut trousers. But it was old. Calling it second hand would have been generous. Sylvia had found it in her storeroom, an unclaimed item from the shop's long history. A tailor's bill for $2.30 had been pinned to the lapel, a fair price for alterations in 1947, that date scribed on the corner of the receipt.

The shirt felt oddly warm against his skin as he slipped it on. More modern in design than the tuxedo, the cropped neck was embroidered with white silk thread, detailing the small collar points with fleur-de-lis. It fit well. Donning the jacket and pants, he double-checked that everything was buttoned and zipped, then returned to Sylvia.

He scowled, seeing the smirk plastered on her face, watching him walk down the aisle.

"Well?" he asked, stopping short of the counter. Sylvia came around to the front and leaned against the glass. Smirk still in place, she twirled her finger through the air.

"Spin. Let me take a good look at you."

Jaw clenched, he thrust his arms out to the sides and spun on one heel. _This is so humiliating…_

"Arms down," she commanded, "and less disco. Slowly - I don't want to miss anything."

He complied. Sylvia _hmmm-ed _and fretted, checking every seam and crease. "The shirt was a good choice," she commented, straightening his lapels. "A nice collar tie should do. I don't see you as the bow tie type." She threaded a wisp of black silk around the collar and fastened it with a simple silver tack pin. Spike jumped when she then stuck her hands into the waist of his trousers. 

"Hey!" he protested. Sylvia _tsked_, then went over to a rack of leather belts.

"As if," she intoned, tossing him one. "Put that on. Unless you want a cummerbund."

"I'll pass, thanks."

Belted, buttoned and zipped, he waited while Sylvia did another inspection. 

"The boots need to go. They're ruining the line of the pants. Plus they're tacky." Kneeling down to straighten the cuffs on the trousers, she ran her hand, quickly, up one of his legs, then down the other. Spike jumped again.

"Inseam's fine. Plenty of room to grow there."

"Are we almost finished?" he growled. "I've been through torture sessions that were less painful."

"No doubt." She stepped back and gave him a final appraisal. "Aside from the shoes, I think we're done. I outdid myself. You look good."

Spike smoothed imaginary wrinkles out of the jacket. "You sure? I don't look like a waiter or anything?"

Sylvia smiled. "Just a moment." She dashed to the back of the store, returning a few minutes later, wheeling a large stand-up mirror. "You want to see for yourself?"

Spike looked at her in amazement. "You're joking, right? Vampire, here. Thought we were clear on that."

She shrugged and fluttered her fingers. Tiny sparkles arced through the air. "One with the majicks, remember?"

Spike gazed at the mirror and its empty reflection. Could she do it? Let him see himself? 

Did he want to?

"Well, uh… " he stammered, glancing between the witch and the mirror, "I don't think a spell's in my best interest."

"The spell isn't for you," she corrected, "let's be clear on that. I don't enchant dead things - not even re-animated dead things. It isn't a precedent I want to set. But, I _can_ work a whammy on the mirror." She narrowed her eyes at Spike. Was it her imagination, or was he shaking? "You alright?"

He ignored her and continued to stare at the mirror. _It's not that big a deal,_ he reasoned. He'd had his picture taken as a vampire; back when Dawnie and he were tight, she'd snapped a photo or two. Granted, he'd been a walking bruise that last time, at the birthday party from Hell, but enough of him had shown through the lumps for him to have a good idea of what he was - or at least, how he appeared.

But this was altogether different. He was different. Would he be able to see _It_? Would he be as he remembered? Or would it still be that 'evil thing', looking back at him?

"Okay, I'm not asking you the Riddle of the Sphinx here," said Sylvia, "A 'yes' or 'no' will do." 

He blinked and gave her his attention.

"Y-yes," he muttered, running his hands through his hair. "Do it."

He closed his eyes. Latin tumbled from her lips, words he knew but shut out of his mind. His hands tightened into fists at his sides, fingers clenching and opening in an effort to dispel the anxiety that was welling inside. _The monster, or the man? The monster, or the man? _

"Okay, go ahead."

His eyes snapped open and fixed on the image before him.

There he was.

He'd forgotten his eyes were so blue, his face so angular. He touched the scar over his right… _no, left. It's all opposite; the reverse_… eye, the skin still sensitive, even 100 years later. Isobelle was drawn to the scar; he couldn't swear she liked it, but she always doted on it whenever they were intimate. Fingertips, feather-light, brushing over it as they kissed, or tracing its jagged path with her tongue. He hadn't told her the story of how he'd earned it. He didn't think he ever would. If she knew, would she ignore it? Stop her ministrations? Each kiss, every caress, was a balm: for the pain, the past, the misdeeds and missteps. She healed him, a little bit at a time. The scar was still there. It always would be. But now, it meant more than just one good day. 

"Well, what do you think?"

Sylvia's voice snapped him out of his reverie.

"What? Oh, it's fine. Good job. Thanks."

"Please, try and curb your enthusiasm." She went over and slid her arm through his, ignoring how he flinched at her touch. "Too bad 'Little Miss Cutie' didn't stick around. You could've seen what you looked like together."

"Isobelle," he corrected, with a whispered growl. "Her name is Isobelle."

"Whatever. Go get some shoes."

Footwear selected and clothing safely inside plastic carriers, Sylvia tallied the bill. "I'm only charging you for the shirt, tie and shoes. The suit's been paid for once, already."

"Whatever," he mimicked, producing a sheaf of twenties from his pocket. Sylvia raised an eyebrow.

"Didn't know you were undead _and_ gainfully employed."

"Helps to have a skill," he replied. There were a few pool halls in the city where he was no longer welcome.

"Does 'Little Miss…' " She stopped as he glared at her. "Does she know you've got another… hobby?"

He shrugged. "Surprisingly, that's one topic she hasn't plumbed. She doesn't need to know everything."

"Dangerous," she clucked. "I'd re-think that policy if I were you." 

He laid eight twenties on the counter and gathered the bags. "Good night, Sylvia. Thanks."

She watched him walk out of the store, and shook her head.

__

Vampires.

~+~

Isobelle gaped at the computer screen. _Good Lord,_ she thought, scrolling through the text. _Who would have ever come up with…? _Her jaw dropped, reading the last paragraph. "Now that's just physically impossible!" she blurted, startling Miranda. The tortoiseshell had been asleep in Isobelle's lap; jolted awake by the outburst, the cat jumped down and, with a growl, stalked off towards the kitchen. Isobelle squirmed in her chair, puzzling out the directions on the screen. Twisting her arms and legs, she eventually gave up. "Physically impossible - and painful," she concluded, her shoulders knotted by spasms. She clicked her way out of that article and selected another. She was deep in her vampire archives, the collection of articles, myths and pseudo-research texts she'd gathered soon after she'd found Spike. She hadn't been through the files in weeks; in fact, she felt a bit guilty, perusing them now. Two months ago, he had been a mystery - well, _more_ of a mystery - and she'd approached him as such. When in doubt, her instinct was to study and research. 

And at the moment, she was researching vampires and sex.

Despite all the rumour, innuendo, and Ann Rice hype, she eventually determined that vampires _did_ have sex. Well, she knew that. The occasional odd maneuver - or diagram - aside, she had learned nothing useful. Id driven, vampires indulged in the same kinks, fetishes and desires as humans. They just had more… stamina. 

Again, something she already knew. 

But there was one little question she wanted answered. Stupid as it sounded, it wasn't something she felt comfortable asking him, so she was resorting to searching her files. That however, led to another problem: trolling for the answer on the Internet seemed… degrading, especially in this matter. She was the one pushing Spike to be open with his feelings and concerns, yet here she was, too self-conscious to ask the man she was sleeping with about something that could impact their sex life.

She sorted through a few more files, knowing it was a waste of time. Miranda padded back into the room, rubbing against her calves. Isobelle reached down and scratched her chin. "You know 'randa, things were so much easier when I was thirteen. Grandma gave me a book and sent me to Dr. MacLeod's office. What I need to know," she sighed, shaking her head, "wasn't in the book."

"What book?"

The voice from behind made her jump. Miranda took off with a hiss. Spike watched, amused, as she collected herself.

"God! Don't sneak up on me like that!" she scolded. She fumbled with the mouse, trying to clear the computer screen. "You scared me half to death!"

"Sorry, pet. Didn't mean to startle you." He gave her a kiss on the cheek. "What book?"

"Huh?"

"What book? You were muttering to the cat about a book… "

"Oh, nothing. Never mind." She stole a peek at the monitor, relieved to see it blank. "Did you find a tux?"

"Yep."

"Can I see it?"

"Nope."

"Oh, c'mon," she wheedled, batting her eyelashes. "Please? Pretty please? Model it for me!"

"No. You'll wait 'til Saturday." 

"You're no fun."

"Speakin' of fun," he replied, fixing her with a sly grin, "what exactly were you readin' on the computer?"

"What? Nothing! Nothing at all!" She stole another guilty glance at the screen. Still blank. Spike chuckled.

"Must've been a naughty nothing. Look at you - all dewy and flushed." 

He cupped her blushing cheek and pulled her in for a kiss, his palm tingling from the heat. Moments lingered by, the pair distracted by each other and the shared bit of intimacy. Kisses soon progressed to caresses, Isobelle's hands sliding under Spike's T-shirt, her palms roaming over the hard muscles of his chest. Details from her 'research' floated through her mind, deliciously sensual images, bidden by his coveting mouth and hands.

"Do you want to go upstairs?" he whispered. She shivered, his breath tickling her ear.

"Sofa," she mumbled. "Perfectly good… sofa, right over there… "

"Prefer the bed," he replied, playing with the buttons on her top. "Besides, I'm not too keen on an audience." She followed his glance downwards. At their feet, rapt with attention, were Miranda and Dante. 

"Bed it is," she agreed. With a wicked grin, Spike seized her by the waist and lifted her off the ground. "What are you doing?" she laughed. No-one had ever _literally_ swept her off her feet before. "I can walk, you know."

He shook his head and went towards the staircase. "I went out and got a nancy-boy suit tonight, and I deserve a reward." He kissed her hard, pulling her lower lip into his mouth, biting it gently. "And for my reward, you'll be needing all the energy you got, so you're _not_ gonna waste any climbin' stairs."

She wrapped her arms around his neck and nuzzled its silent pulse. "Mmm, chivalry, Spike-style? I could get used to this."

Cradling her closer, he looked up to the bedroom door, then back to the woman in his arms. _Kinda hopin' you do,_ he thought. _Kinda hopin' you do._

~+~

Isobelle leaned over the side of the bed, reaching for something on the floor. Fumbling in the dark, her hand finally made contact with the alarm clock. She pulled it up and checked the glowing red digits. 

"Well, the clock still works," she said, setting it back on the night table. She adjusted the shade on the small lamp and flicked the light on. Weak light filtered through the darkness, bathing the bed in a faint golden glow. "I thought for sure it was a goner."

"Sorry about that, pet," Spike replied, running his hand over her naked back. She twisted around and slid on top of him, kissing him lightly as her hands twined in his hair. He stretched underneath her, winding his calves around hers, holding her in place.

"Don't apologize. That was amazing."

"Didn't do it alone," he mumbled, his dark gaze fixing on hers. 

A long moment passed in silence, Spike and Isobelle lost in each other's eyes and the warmth of comfort and satiation. She settled against him, feeling safe in his embrace. He was softer, in these moments, all his pretense and posturing having faded into the darkness, leaving his sensitive core unguarded and vulnerable. This was the man who needed the most support, the gentle understanding and acceptance of someone who valued the romantic as much as the strength. This was the man the world needed to know. 

This was the man she was falling in love with.

" 'belle?"

"Yeah, babe?"

"Have you given any thought to how you're gonna introduce me at this party?"

She moved one hand down to his chest, tracing lazy circles over his stilled heart. "How do you want me to introduce you? It's up to you."

He thought for a moment, then sighed. "Well, it can't be 'Spike'."

She blinked at him. "Why not?"

He gave a small, tight laugh. Her heart twitched, watching as he started to close himself off. "Why not? How can you ask that? It'd be bloody embarrassing, wouldn't it?"

"For who?"

"For who?! For _you_, love. Couldn't have you do that in front of… those people."

Isobelle pushed herself up and rested on Spike's hips. He looked at her, guileless. Taking his hands in hers, she urged him up, helping him rest against the headboard. She tangled her fingers with his and held on tightly.

"I am _not_ embarrassed by you, or ashamed to be with you. God, I _hate_ that you still think that way; that you'd think I'd feel like that about you, about us."

"And you're not being bloody realistic," he admonished. "This thing is just a test, right? Another hoop for you to jump through. Image counts, 'belle. I won't have you fuck this up because of me. I'll be whoever you need me to be. Which, I guess, is easier said than done, since that's still a soddin' mystery, itself."

Isobelle bit back a frustrated sigh. He was making this so hard on himself. 

"If you don't want me to introduce you as 'Spike', what name do you want me to use?" She drew his hands around to her back, then leaned in to his chest. He reflexively hugged her closer, then gave a slight shrug.

"William?" she suggested. 

A wince flickered across his face. _The last time someone called me William…_

Buffy. 

The crypt. 

Bomb debris and broken pride littering the concrete floor.

__

I'm using you… 

And it's killing me… 

It's over… 

I'm sorry, William.

"Maybe not William," he eventually replied. "Will. What about Will?" He attempted a grin, but it faded quickly. "Can you see yourself dating a 'Will'?"

She stroked his cheek. "I see myself dating _you_. Call yourself whatever you need, but _I_ need _you_ to get me through this thing."

"One of us will be there for you, darling," he joked. "Promise." He tweaked her side, forcing a stilted laugh from her.

"No fair," she scolded, swatting at his hand. "Tickling isn't allowed. I'll make it a rule if I have to."

"Okay, baby, whatever you say," he said.

"I guess I can live with 'Will'," she relented. That earned her a smile from Spike. "But," she added, dropping kisses along his jaw, "who is it I'm making love with?"

"No worries there, love," he replied, capturing her face in his palms. "It's always going to be me."

~+~


	13. Gauntlet

Archive: If you like. Just let me know where!

Disclaimer: Joss' toys. Just playing. Don't sue me! I have nothing you want.

Thanks to my wonderful Beta Sylvia, who keeps me on track, literate and allows for girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.

E-mail: spikeswillingslave@yahoo.ca

A/N: Thank you to Sylvia for making me do the re-write: as always, you knew what was needed! And a nod to Beta/Cheerleader Kristen ~ here's your 'tribute'!

~+~

Spike never had luck at parties.

Fresh from the shower, he shuffled around in his old bedroom, having been sent there by Isobelle, who - for some reason - found it impossible to get dressed with him in their room. He cinched the towel tightly around his waist, staring at the clothes laid out on the bed, his mind pulling out memories of past social disasters. The vengeance curse, that had trapped him - and the others - like rats in the Summers' home. The time he'd been tossed through a window by a lovesick robot. Or - a sentimental favourite - being strapped, with leather bindings, to a chair, by a poltergasmic frat house.

The list went on. If he tried hard enough, he could, undoubtedly, associate at least one humiliation with every fete that came to mind, right down to the night he'd been rejected by Cecily, mocked by her favoured guests, then turned, by Drusilla. He wondered what new horror he could add to the roster after tonight.

There was a knock on the door. "Spike?"

"What?" he replied, opening the door a crack, "And, it's 'Will', 'belle. Start calling me 'Will', otherwise you're gonna slip up later."

"Fine," she grumbled. " 'Will' it is. So, 'Will', we leave in half an hour. You need any help in there?"

He smiled. "You kicked me out of our room because I was in the way."

"You wouldn't let me get dressed!"

He took in the sight of her, standing in the hall, wrapped head to toe in terrycloth. White robe, towel turbaned around her head and floppy slippers that showed a hint of freshly lacquered nails.

"I can see you've made incredible progress."

"It's a process, '_Will_'. Layers are involved. And, hey - pot, kettle."

"It'll take me five minutes, missy."

"Not if you have to fumble with a bow tie."

"No bow tie."

"Or cufflinks."

"No… " he started. _Cufflinks? _

"…problem. Go on, 'belle. I'll meet you downstairs."

"Alright," she replied. "Twenty-eight minutes. And what are you going to do with your hair?"

He shut the door and swore. How could he have forgotten cufflinks? He went to the bed and rifled through the pockets of the suit, the garment bag and the boxes holding the belt and shoes. 

Nothing.

Running a hand through his damp hair, he went to the dresser and checked the drawers, then the closet, hoping to find something her father's - or grandfather's - that he could use. He came up empty. 

At least he had the tack pin for the tie. Didn't he? He quickly sorted through the bags from the shop, and retrieved the tie. At the bottom of the sack was a small crimson box. Pulling it out, he found the silver pin for the tie and the matching cufflinks. A note was fixed to the lid of the case:

__

Knew you'd forget something. Don't embarrass 'Little Miss Cutie'. S.

"Well, thank you Sylvia," he muttered, tossing the box on the bed. "Now, where are my socks?"

__

Bloody hell.

~+~

Miracle of miracles, the dress still fit.

Isobelle cast a critical eye at the mirror, searching her reflection for fixable flaws. Her dress was simple - black, strapless and silk - something she had found, years ago, of her mother's wardrobe. She rarely had the need for formalwear, so the idea of buying a new outfit for one event didn't make too much sense. The dress had served her well in the past, on the odd occasion when she'd needed to be 'presentable'. Demurely high across the chest, it scooped lower in the back, its straight hem falling her mid-calf. Despite the warmth of the summer evening, she draped the matching wrap around her arms and made one final appraisal. A protracted session with the hair dryer had managed to eliminate most of the curl from her hair, creating loose waves that grazed her pale shoulders. She wore no jewelry, except for a tiny pair of diamond stud earrings - also her mother's - and she'd kept her makeup light, indulging only in darker eyeliner and rose-tinted lipstick. 

"Ready as I'll ever be," she mumbled, heading towards the stairs. She could hear Spike - _No, 'Will'_ - pacing in the entryway. She tread cautiously down the steps, in a futile effort to sneak a glance at him in his finery before he could see her; she hadn't even made the landing when she felt the weight of his gaze settle over her. 

Spike couldn't help but stare when she came into view. She was lovely, exuding feminine courtliness reminiscent of his past, of time spent in drawing rooms and parlours, where proper gentlemen wooed delicate ladies with promises of devotion and everlasting love.

"Look at you," he murmured, taking her hand. "You're… Isobelle, you're stunning."

His obvious approval made her blush. "What, this old thing? Haven't you seen a dress before?"

"Haven't seen _you_ in a dress before, and it isn't just the dress."

"Thank you." She stepped back and ran her eyes over him. "Would it sound insincere if I also said… " she paused, a broad smile overtaking her features, "… you look amazing."

"What, this old thing?" he mimicked. Self-consciously, he smoothed the lapels of his jacket, while she looked on. "I thought this was something you'd like."

"It isn't just the suit," she replied, continuing their shy verbal dance. She ran her fingers through his hair; they slipped easily through the soft curls. The roots were showing, their darkness contrasting with the frostiness of the bleached ends. "No gel. I like it."

Minutes lingered by, one still enthralled by the other, unable - or unwilling - to break the moment. Spike cleared his throat. "I suppose we should be going… "

"Right," she agreed. "You want to drive?"

He took the car keys and led her to the door. He stopped abruptly.

"I should've gotten you a corsage. I forgot."

She shook her head and tried not to laugh. "This isn't exactly a _corsage_ kind of event," she said, squeezing his arm, "But that's a lovely thought… " She turned towards the kitchen and headed for the back door. "Just wait there," she called over her shoulder, "I won't be long."

He fidgeted with the keys, peering out the main door, watching the dark orange flare of the setting sun stain the sky. Hearing her heels clicking on the tile, he turned to see her return with a small red rose in her hand.

"I don't think the neighbours will miss one little bud, do you?" she asked, slipping a hand under his lapel.

"What? You nicked it?" 

She grinned. "Not really. It _was_ growing on our side of the fence." 

She focused on sliding a pin through the tough, woody stem of the bud, then gave a sharp yelp.

"Ow! Damn." She pulled her hand away from his jacket, grimacing as a small crimson drop welled up on her index finger.

Tension filled the foyer. Isobelle looked up at Spike. He gazed intently at her finger, mesmerized by the bead of blood. He wrapped a hand around her wrist and held her still; head bent, his nostrils flared as he inhaled the scent.

Human blood.

Her blood.

His lover's blood.

He wanted it. To slide her finger into his mouth and suck the drop down, to consume it - consume _her_ - and make her part of him. The urge to know her in that way was frighteningly powerful; it both thrilled and sickened him. Thrilled, because it was a sign, a demon's instinct, to taste and claim the one you wanted; the man had made his bid, and now, the demon was making his. Sickened, because it demeaned; it was base, animalistic and crude, playing upon his weaknesses and reminding him how low a creature he actually was. 

He blinked, then released her wrist. Snagging a tissue from the hall table, he pressed it over the wound.

"You okay?" she asked. "I didn't know… "

"S'alright. Really." With a forced smile he offered his arm. "Ready to dazzle them, babe?"

She smiled back. "I'm ready for anything, as long as you're with me."

~+~

Isobelle crossed the threshold of the reception room, hovering near the steps that led to the crowd below. Spike stood beside her, one arm encircling her waist. The organizers had booked the event into one of the city's oldest hotels, a pre-Deco, and 1920s design steeped in the latter years of fading Indo-Victorian splendour. Dulcet greens and fawns coloured the walls, which were ornamented in blackened iron and oiled wood fixtures. The earthiness of the backdrop was contrasted by the richness of the thick Persian wool under their feet, overstuffed chairs of leather and suede, and side tables decked with glowing glass lanterns and tropical greenery. The main gathering space was a sunken floor, tiered on all sides by stairs and teak banisters. The well-heeled masses milled below, sipping wine and laughing in tight, intimate groups. Occasionally, an eye was cast upwards, to the entrance, checking on the latest arrivals, favouring some with smiles of greeting, while others earned bored frowns of disappointment. Spike felt like he'd walked into a Forster novel: the setting, the crowd - the whole dynamic - was reminiscent of the old-fashioned, caste-oriented privilege of his youth. And, here he was, walking into the tiger's lair, with his own Miss Quested on his arm.

"See anyone you know?" he asked.

"See lots of people I know," she replied, "Just no one I like."

"Well, pick the least repellent of the lot and say 'hello' ".

"I'm looking for someone… but I don't see… " She craned her neck, checking the far corners of the room, then grinned. "I should have known. By the bar."

"What?" Spike asked, "Who? Bar?" 

They threaded their way through the chattering cliques, Spike maintaining his grasp on her waist, as she steered them towards some unseen point beyond the throng. Heads turned in their wake; a few formerly disinterested gazes now fixed on the couple as they passed by. This was familiar to him: the stares, the ebbing of bodies out of his way as his presence was declared - it was all reminiscent of the salad days with Dru, when all they had to do to own a room was walk in. Now, he had a different dark, silk-wrapped beauty on his arm, but the effect was the same. Power. Confidence. Control. He held himself a little straighter, casting the next set of onlookers a cool, appraising glance. Men averted their eyes, sensing his silent challenge, while more than one of the female guests blushed under his scrutiny. 

"Dave!" she called out, sending a small wave to the lone figure at the bar. The man signaled a reply and rose to meet her. Isobelle pulled away from Spike and greeted the man with a hug. 

"Finally," Dave said, looking her over. "Katie was sure you'd chickened out. If she had to do this by her lonesome, she'd have been pissed."

"Not a chance. Where is she, anyway?"

"Hiding in the powder room, making sure she's 'presentable'." He peered over her shoulder, taking in the quiet blond behind her. 

"Dave, I'd like you to meet Will."

Spike's proffered hand was seized in a firm handshake. Dave was a formidable physical presence, standing at least a head taller than Spike and twice the vampire's breadth. Generous laugh lines creased his ruddy face. Pale, coppery hair and slightly silvered beard took some of the intimidation out of his appearance.

"Good to meet you, Will. You must be the reason she's missed two months of Sunday dinners."

"Didn't mean to be," Spike replied, "and, the pleasure is mine." His well-bred, Victorian decencies started to emerge and, taking Isobelle by the hand, he guided her to a seat at the bar.

The bartender was a pretty young blonde, with sparkling blue eyes and a thousand-watt smile. The name _Kristen_ was embroidered in gold thread on her black vest. "What can I get you folks this evening?" she asked.

"Hold that thought, my dear," Dave replied. He looked to the couple seated next to him. "Who's driving? And before you answer, Isobelle, let me remind you that both Will and I put on monkey suits for you gals, and this is an open bar."

"Open bar?" Spike asked. "You didn't mention that, love."

"Important info to be keeping from your man, little girl," Dave jokingly admonished. "Just for that, I think Will and I should definitely be allowed to skip driving duties."

"Seems only fair, 'belle," Spike added, deciding to play along; he'd agree to anything that would make the evening bearable. 

"God," Isobelle smirked, shaking her head. "You guys have known each other for less than sixty seconds and you're already double-teaming me." She stuck out her hand. "Keys," she said to Spike, who fished them out of his pocket. "Keys, trouble-maker," she directed at Dave, who gladly dumped his set into her palm. She tucked them away in her handbag and slid off her stool. "Pace yourselves, fellas. You're stuck here for a couple of hours. I'm off to find Katie."

Kristen returned. "Decisions, gentlemen?"

He turned to Spike. "What d'ya say, Will? Make it worth our while?"

"What do you have in mind?"

He smiled. " Kristen, my dear. Scotch. Neat. The best you've got."

Crystal tumblers with amber liquid were slid in front of the pair. Dave saluted Spike with his glass. "To an open bar."

"To the ladies," Spike corrected. 

"Even better. Cheers."

They sipped to the toast. Kristen didn't skimp; it was the best scotch he'd had in ages.

"So, tell me, Will. How did she get you to come tonight?"

"Pardon?"

"Me? I'm married. I had no choice; Katie all but waved a copy of our wedding vows under my nose, reminding me of the 'for worse' part of the pact. How did Isobelle rope you in?"

Spike shrugged. "She asked me."

"That's it?"

"More or less."

"What's the more?"

Spike sighed. "She asked me - _a lot_. And used logic."

"Smart wench."

"Indeed."

They sipped in silence, each man trying to gauge the other. Small talk was not one of Spike's strengths. The quiet pause between them was becoming uncomfortable. 

Kristen approached the pair and set another round in front of them.

"Workin' on tips tonight, are you girl?" Dave asked, happily accepting the tumbler. Kristen grinned and tilted her head towards the far end of the bar, while giving a knowing look to Spike.

"Courtesy of the one in the red dress."

Both men glanced where Kristen had indicated. Perched on a stool with a swizzle stick lolling gracelessly in her mouth, the woman in question tossed Spike a knowing smile and flipped back her long, dark hair. 

"Oh, man," Dave chortled, downing the drink in one swallow, "You're gonna make this night interesting!"

Spike inched the glass away from him and Kristen put it under the bar. "Oh, c'mon," Dave goaded, "It's just some harmless fun."

"Tell her that," Spike replied, wincing as the woman slid off her stool and made her move. He made a quick scan of the room, hoping that, wherever Isobelle was, she'd stay there for the next few minutes.

Red Dress sidled up and squeezed between them. "Hi," she bubbled, bright eyes fixed on Spike. "I'm Kelly."

Polite introductions out of the way, Dave surrendered his seat and watched, amused, as she went to work on Spike. 

"So," she said, swizzle stick still in play, "you guys having a good time tonight?"

"Not so far," Spike muttered, swallowing the remains of his first drink. Kristen poured him another, pointedly ignoring the round Kelly had sent earlier.

"So, Kelly," Dave said, "do you work at the hospital, too?"

She giggled. "Who, me? Hospital? Eww! No way! With all the sick people? Gross!"

"Then what are you doing here?" Spike asked. She treated him to a slightly drunken smile.

"Actually," she whispered, leaning in close, "I snuck in from the pub downstairs. I heard there were some really cute doctors up here and thought - hey, why not?" She ran her red-lacquered nails over the back of Spike's hand. "You're a doctor, right?"

Dave snorted into his third scotch. Spike gritted his teeth and moved his hand away. "Sorry, ducks. You fixed on the wrong guy."

Kelly blinked. "You guys aren't doctors?"

"No," Dave answered, wiping his chin, "But we do sleep with them."

Her eyes widened. "You mean, you're gay?"

Spike shuddered and rubbed his eyes. Dave guffawed, spilling the rest of his precious Glenlivet over the marble top of the bar.

"No," Spike replied, as patiently as possible.

"Not that there's anything wrong with that," Dave added.

Kelly collected her swizzle stick and gave up her seat. "I think I'm gonna go. You guys are a little too strange for me."

" 'night, Kelly," Dave called after her. He slapped Spike on the back and ordered another round. "Having fun yet?"

"Like you wouldn't believe."

~+~

Isobelle sipped her tonic water and watched the drama unfolding at the bar. 

"I don't believe it! She's going right up to them!"

Isobelle glanced to her right. A slightly indignant Katie Forsythe stood there, as Red Dress pushed between her husband and her friend's date. Nearly ten years Isobelle's senior, Katie had been her best friend since medical school. A latecomer to her career, Katie had put marriage and family before her own education. Diminutive in size but large in spirit, Katie had a sharp mind and hearty love of life and work that belied her quiet, soccer-mom image. 

"Don't you want to go over?"

Isobelle shook her head. "They'll be fine. I wanna see what happens."

"She's trying to pick up your date, that's what's happening." Katie crossed her arms over her chest and considered the scene before her. "Not that I blame her. My God, Isobelle, where did you find the pretty blond man?"

She smiled. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Katie nodded, _hmm_-ing in appreciation. "He's gorgeous, Izzy. No wonder I haven't seen you outside of work for weeks. Now, what the hell is Dave doing? He's giving her his _seat_? Oh, c'mon. We've gotta put an end to this."

"Just wait a sec."

Katie shook her head. "He's just egging her on."

"Spike can handle it."

Katie shot her friend a look. " 'Spike'? I thought you said his name was 'Will'?"

Isobelle choked on her tonic water. "It… it is. Spike is just a nickname. God Katie, please, don't call him 'Spike'. He'll kill me that I let that slip."

"No problem. But, you and I are gonna have a chat about this, believe me."

A few moments later, they saw a flustered Red Dress wobble away from the bar.

"Okay, let's go," Isobelle said. The women made their way to the bar. Sensing their approach, Spike slid off his seat and offered it to Isobelle. More introductions were made, Katie momentarily lost for words when Spike took her hand and gave his most polite smile.

"You gals make any progress yet?" Dave asked, shaking his head at Kristen's offer to freshen his drink.

"No bigwigs in the ladies room, honey," Katie replied. "You fellas up to trolling the crowd?"

Her husband nodded. "If it gets us outta here faster, I'm all for it."

"Best behaviour, sweetheart," Katie reminded. Dave kissed her cheek.

"You know I'm kidding, hon. So Will, you ready to mingle?"

Spike tossed back the last of his scotch. "As I'll ever be," he replied, trailing them into the breach.

~+~

Not being you had its advantages.

'Will' was an evolving presence. Bits of swainish William and Alpha Spike co-mingled to create the charming Everyman that was the fixture at Isobelle's side. 'Will' could smile at the irredeemable joke that would have sent timidly eager William into apoplexy, or tolerate the crassest exposition that would have been incendiary to the complex social boundaries of Spike. 'Will' bantered where William would have fumbled. 'Will' accepted and followed where Spike would have rejected and rebelled. 

'Will' was the perfect accessory.

At least, for the first hour. 

In that hour, Isobelle did her best to win over the elite with her wit and innate intellect and, hoping, at the very least, not to embarrass herself in the process. 

And, she was succeeding.

That is, until the second hour.

As time dragged by, the alcohol flowed, loosening the mores and manners of the power elect. Sottish supervisors began focusing on more than her mind and skill, punctuating their pointless inquiries with lazy gazes, or entendre'd comments with a misplaced hand. Flustered but persevering, she laughed off the transgressions, looking to her escort for support.

William would have been affronted.

Spike - if able - would have ripped off the offender's arm and beaten him with it.

'Will', however, became master of the proprietary glare, offering it as a silent but direct challenge to whoever dared touch his consort.

It worked. For awhile.

Distracted by Dave and his desire to return to the bar, Spike had become separated from Isobelle. Sending Katie to collect her husband, he started to search the crowd, more than eager to put the night to an end. The masses around him blurred and faded away, his concentration dedicated to locating her face, her scent, from amongst the others. 

He found her a few moments later, pressed into a distant corner of the great room, being detained by one of the grosser social offenders of the evening. An uneasy smile rested on her lips as the man's wandering hand moved from her shoulder down to her thigh. Biting back a snarl, Spike stalked over, deliciously violent thoughts making the chip squirm in his brain.

"I really need to go," Isobelle said, nearly failing in her effort to keep her tone light and calm. "My boyfriend is probably wondering where I've gotten to."

"Never mind him," the man slurred, tightening his sloppy grip on her thigh. "We're talkin' about your future here… you'd make a nice addition to the team."

"And, that would be great," she replied, trying to slide out of his grasp, "but right now, I think I want to go home."

"No, no, no. Ya see, if you want to be on the team, you gotta be a _team player_." He moved in a bit closer, forcing her to retreat deeper into wall. "Are you a team player? Or do you prefer to go one on one?"

"Actually," came a cool, British voice, "she prefers more of a tag-team type action." 

Spike carefully removed the man's hand from her body and eased her out of the corner. "And, consider me tagged," he added. "You can deal with me now."

The man sniggered, wallowing in alcohol-induced confidence. "Do you know who I am, son? She does. She knows how important it is to be… _friendly_."

"Let's just go," she whispered, threading her arm through Spike's.

"In a minute, love." He crept closer, closing the gap between himself and his target. His voice became soft, his accent honeyed with contempt. "Do I know you? No." A predatory grin flitted across his face. "Do I care? No."

William had nothing to contribute.

'Will' had retired for the evening.

"Do you know who _I_ am?"

Spike came to the fore.

A glint of gold tainted his sapphire eyes. The chip crackled, threatening to fire from the simple intent that flowed through Spike's consciousness.

The man recoiled, offering no rejoinder or resistance as Spike led his girl away.

"Thank you," she shuddered, melting into his side. "I couldn't make him go away."

"Don't thank me for that," he replied. "Let's gather the others. We're done for the night."

His words were crisp, dismissive; the tone sent a chill down her spine.

This wasn't over yet.

~+~

Once at home, doors locked against the outside world, Spike helped Isobelle out of her wrap, laying it and his jacket over the staircase railing.

"Drink?" he asked, heading for the liquor cabinet in the dining room. She shook her head, watching as he poured a generous amount of vodka into one of her grandmother's crystal tumblers. He downed it in two deep swallows, then refilled the glass.

"About tonight," she started, "I want to… "

"Forget it," he broke in, "Tonight's over. Let it be a memory. I'm tryin'."

"Well, that explains the silent treatment I got on the way home… "

"Don't," he warned, thrusting the tumbler in her direction. "Don't start with that passive-aggressive crap now; not unless you want a rollicking row before bed. I don't wanna talk about it, I just want it to go the fuck away, so, let's shut the hell up about tonight!"

Anger coloured her voice. "I'm not starting anything, Spike! You're the one copping the attitude here! I just want to know what the hell is wrong?"

More vodka poured down his throat. "Hmmm, what's wrong? What could possibly have been wrong with a gem of a night like this?!"

"It wasn't that bad… " she started. 

He gave a bitter laugh, cutting her off. " I've been to apocalypses that were less horrendous! Suffered through torture sessions that were tea parties compared to this travesty!" He took another long sip and topped off his drink for a third time. 

"You want to give some specifics before you choke on that bottle? Because, I'm having a hard time figuring out what the hell pissed you off so badly. And - don't yell at me!"

He slammed his glass onto the sideboard and glared at her. Isobelle shivered, seeing the anger flashing in his eyes, and his fight to control it. 

"Havin' to stand there and see you whore yourself like that… "

She recoiled. His words felt like a slap.

"How can you say that? What the _hell_ are you talking about, anyway!?"

"I'm talkin' about you, mincing and capering for those fucking pricks! If I'd known it was gonna be like that, I'd never have let you guilt me into going. No fucking way!"

"I don't… I don't know what to say."

"That's a shock. You usually have an answer for everything, sweetheart." He scowled at his now-empty glass; the vodka bottle was also empty. He rooted through the cabinet and found scotch; not the Glenlivet he'd been sipping earlier, but it'd do the trick. She stomped over and took the bottle out of his hand.

"Give it!"

She ignored the demand. "Who do you think you are, talking to me like that?"

"Nobody. I'm nobody. This happens all the time with you fucking women. 'Do this, Spike,' 'Do that Spike.' You're all the fucking same!! I did what you wanted! I went, I held my tongue, but not… I can't do it! Not anymore!"

His hand circled the base of her neck and he backed her into the wall. He gave it a small squeeze, with just enough pressure to make her gasp, and for the chip to start humming in his head.

"Let go of me," she demanded, adrenaline making her voice waver.

"Why didn't you say those things tonight? 'Let go of me', 'How dare you speak to me like that'? Instead, you… " 

"I did not _whore_ myself," she spat, interrupting him. "The fact you would say that to me makes my skin crawl."

"Poor flower," he intoned, dropping his hand from her throat. "Affronted?"

"Disgusted!"

"Join the club." 

"I did what I needed to do for my job. My life. Did I like it? No. Did I have to do it? Yes. Like you said before. Jumping through hoops. I jumped."

He peered at her from hooded, hazy eyes. "Did you also have to get yourself cornered by that drunken ponce and let 'im grab your ass? Oldie, but a goodie, in the ladder-climbing handbook."

Her free hand shot out and cracked across his jaw. He flinched, but turned back to her with a grin. She pressed her stinging hand to her mouth, horrified.

"Ooh, baby, more please! Now, _this_ I understand. Hit me a few more times, then you can fuck me 'til you feel better. Worked for a few of my ex's, no reason you shouldn't have try at it, too."

"Spike, I… "

"Don't! Don't say you're _sorry_, or some lame shit like that! C'mon, do it! Hit me again! It's what I'm good for, yeah? Do it again, until I show you how sorry I can be!"

He leaned in for a kiss, but she pushed him back.

"Stop," she demanded. He immediately withdrew.

"Finally learned what that means, too. Or, have I?"

He stepped closer, but she moved away from the wall.

"What? Tired of playing already? Don't you want to _talk_ about it some more?" He snickered at the angry confusion displayed on her face

She thrust the scotch into his chest.

"I'm going to bed. You can go to hell."

He cracked the seal on the neck of the bottle and threw the cap across the room. He drank straight from it, listening to her stomp up the stairs.

"No worries there, baby," he muttered, sinking to the hardwood floor.

~+~


	14. Conciliation

Archive: If you like. Just let me know where!

Disclaimer: Joss' toys. Just playing. Don't sue me! I have nothing you want.

Thanks to my wonderful Beta Sylvia, who keeps me on track, literate and allows for girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.

E-mail: spikeswillingslave@yahoo.ca

~+~

Isobelle fumbled with the zipper on her dress, finding it difficult to grasp the tiny tab with her shaking hands. Pulling at the fastening with frustration, she let out a groan, hearing the fabric rend from her efforts. The silk hung loosely at her waist. She carefully stepped out of the garment and examined the damage. Relieved to see only a minor tear near the seam, she slung the dress on the end of the bed and put on her robe. Sinking down on the mattress, she dropped her head into her hands and rubbed her eyes.

__

"Havin' to stand there and see you whore yourself like that… "

His words still burned in her ears. The cool venom behind them, the way they were spoken, dismissive and disgusted, unnerved her. She replayed the evening's events in her mind, wondering at what point her polite enthusiasm and attempts to make a good impression had degenerated into what he'd characterized as pandering. She didn't deny there'd been some moments when the attention she'd received was inappropriate; it was one of the reasons (though she'd never state it to Spike) that she'd needed him there. His implication that she'd willingly allow herself to be treated so, stung; what had she done to make him think such a thing?

She sat on the edge of the bed a while longer, listening to him rattle around downstairs. She jumped, hearing glass shatter, hoping it wasn't her grandmother's crystal that had hit the floor. On impulse, she rose and went to the door, making sure it was closed, and then turned the lock. Flicking off the lights, she let the robe fall to the carpet and crept into bed.

She jumped again when the phone rang. She nearly knocked it off the bedside table in her haste to answer it before the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's Katie."

She sighed. "Why are you calling me at… " She squinted at the clock, " …one AM?"

"Just checking in, making sure everything's okay." Katie was never good at subtlety. Isobelle could hear the concern in her voice.

"Things are peachy. How is it with you?"

Katie sighed into the receiver. "Dave promised to divorce me if I ever dragged him to an event like this again. Think I can hold him to that?"

Despite herself, Isobelle smiled. "Doubtful."

"Rats. And, what about Will? He seemed pretty pissed."

"Is that why you're calling? He's… fine, more or less. And, 'pissed' is accurate."

"What's going on?" More concern flowed over the telephone lines.

"Nothing, really. He's in a mood. He's taking it out on the liquor cabinet at the moment."

"You want to come over and spend the night?"

"What? No, it's not like that. I mean, we had… well, a few things were said and now he's getting sloshed in the dining room and I have the bedroom door locked."

"That's it. Kick his ass out, or pack a bag, I'm coming to get you!"

Isobelle sighed. "Calm down, Katie. It's not what you think."

"Then give me some facts, otherwise I'll make them up."

"Not much to tell. He had a miserable time… "

"Just like Dave… "

" … and I think he hated almost everyone he met."

" …just like Dave… who, by the way, thinks Will is cool, but needs to get a sense of humour."

"He'll be thrilled to hear that."

"What else happened?"

Isobelle squirmed under the covers. "He implied that… well, that I behaved inappropriately."

"How?"

She cringed. "Damn, Katie, he said that I'd _whored_ myself to make a good impression."

"Ouch. Sorry, Iz. That's terrible."

Isobelle frowned into the receiver. "Uh, I don't hear you saying anything to contradict that."

It was Katie's turn to sigh. "Well, hon, I wasn't with you _all_ night…"

"So?"

"But, sweetie - and, remember I love you - you definitely weren't yourself tonight."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Why don't we talk about it in the morning? I'll come by around ten and we'll have coffee… okay?"

"I don't know if it's okay. Tell me what I did!"

"In the morning. So, are you gonna be okay with him there?"

"Yes. Don't worry."

They said their goodnights and hung up. Isobelle debated going downstairs and talking to Spike but rejected the idea; he was, by this point, probably in no shape for conversation. Instead, she cocooned herself in the sheets and searched for sleep.

~+~

Something hurt.

He was puzzled by the sensation. Everything else was pleasantly numb at the moment - his brain, his tongue, his ass, from sitting on the hardwood floor, even the soul - but somewhere, there was pain. He scrutinized the bottle in his hand. Gin. Father's favourite. After scotch, of course, but Spike's scotch was all gone. The remains of the container lay smashed around him. There was blood on the gin bottle and on his palm; it oozed from the tiny cuts made when he'd gathered the broken bits of bottle around him. He sputtered through a generous swallow of alcohol, nearly gagging as the oily liquid burned his throat. He hated gin, but it would do in a pinch.

__

Don't be wasteful, boy. Finish it.

Father hated improvidence. 

Thrift. Utility. Honour. Piety.

Simple demands, really. He'd never succeeded at any of them. 

__

WILLIAM!

The bellow. The charge. The cane and the berating. Minor offenses made major by inadvertent duplicity. Taking the slap for a lost pearl fountain pen he hadn't known was misplaced. Chastised for poor performance on exams and then branded a lay-about for studying in his room. Or, being shoved, knees down, onto the cold stone floor for his weekly penance; being made to beg God's forgiveness for his weakness, his tender heart, his stumbling nature, for the humiliation of being visited as the son of his father's keeping. 

__

Why, boy, did the Lord foist such a lacking child on me? 

Spike choked down another vile mouthful, then dropped the nearly empty bottle beside him.

He'd never asked God that question. Never begged Him for absolution from his courtly faults, those traits that Father had reviled, but Mother had condoned and ratified with murmured praise.

__

You're a good boy, William. Your sweetness is your gift. 

"Bollocks," he slurred. His 'gift' had gotten him nowhere. It had earned him beatings and derision; it was the weakness that had embarrassed his father and had wrested reluctant tears from his eyes the day they'd lowered that man into the earth.

He'd tried to set it aside, after that cold spring day. Nose still filled with the scent of mouldering cemetery dirt, William had vowed to temper his soft goodness with the stronger stuff of Father's legacy. He needed to be the man of the family. The family might only have been him and Mother, but it was his duty to assume control. Shy and benevolent, he'd failed miserably as ruler of the house, but home was now peaceful and welcoming, his brocade and velvet world, one that nurtured his sentimentality and fed his earnestness for a soul to match his own.

He scrabbled for the discarded bottle, knocking it on its side. The liquid soaked his pants and seeped through his glass barricade. It mixed with his blood, forming little pink rivulets that ran along the seams of the floorboards. He took off his shirt and used it to dab at the mess, then pushed the bottle bits into a pile and wrapped them in the ruined silk.

Now, what the hell had he been thinking about?

Father?

Yeah, but not really. Something else.

Pain. That was it. A nebulous ache that waxed and waned in his gut, overriding the alcohol-induced nausea that threatened to test the theory that vampires don't vomit.

He'd been rude to her when they'd gotten home, speaking a few nasty observations that maybe weren't as true as the Glenlivet had led him to believe. But, still, he'd spoken his mind; she'd angered him somehow and that had evolved into the unpleasantness that had left him, drunk, on the floor, and her, alone in the bedroom.

That could be it: a mixture of regret, self-pity and wounded ego would provide the lovely discomfort he was feeling. 

No, that wasn't it. Not all of it, at least. 

Wobbling to his feet, he clutched the dripping shirt to his chest and headed towards the basement.

"One foot in front of the other… " he sing-songed, working his way down the hall. 

Hearing his approach, Dante bounded out of the kitchen and snaked around Spike's calves. Knocked off-balance, he slammed into the wall. Pictures rattled from the impact but, luckily, didn't crash to the floor.

"Dammit, cat, you're a hazard!"

Dante merely _mreouped_ at his master and purred. Spike rubbed his shoulder, grimacing at the dent he'd put in the plaster wall. The few photos hanging there had been skewed by the impact; sighing, he tucked his soggy bundle under his arm and started to straighten the frames.

"Gram'ma and gran'pa… soddin' cottage at the soddin' shore… "

He paused at the third frame, blurry eyes struggling to focus on the image before him.

A little girl and her dog. 

Isobelle, with her riot of curls, dancing blue eyes and a smile that could crack the hardest heart. It was the picture that had caught his attention that first day, the one that had made him stand in the middle of a stranger's house and wonder what it would take to make her smile like that.

He knew, now. 

He recognized it; it was the same smile she'd bestowed on him nearly every day that they'd been together - _really_ together. The night she'd confessed her feelings and kissed him. The first time they'd made love, and again, later, when she'd invited him back into her bed. Making breakfast, cuddling on the sofa reading the paper - hell, even folding the laundry - that was the smile she'd give him. It was his. _He_ made her smile like that; it was his due. He'd earned - well, at least _was_ earning - the right to have her look upon him with such tenderness and favour. She was _his_ girl.

And, tonight, she'd carelessly shared something _so_ similar with everyone: every offensive prat and pawing drunk, each self-aggrandized ponce who had sent her a passing glance of approval. 

'Fuck me," he groaned. 

Jealousy. 

It had been a while since he'd felt that. 

And he should've known better; she'd been trying to be polite, jumping through hoops, striving to make a good impression, no matter how demoralizing. Still, he'd felt what he'd felt, so there must have been something - off - about the situation. Shaking his head, he suddenly wished he hadn't had so much to drink; it hadn't dulled what picked at his gut, or now, at his conscience. 

He made it to the basement and dumped his soiled clothes in the utility sink. Clad only in socks and boxers, he wove his way up to the bedrooms. He paused by their door, not surprised to see it closed tight, not so much as cracked open to allow a peek inside. He placed a hand on the knob, but didn't try turning it; he knew it would be locked. Resigned to a night alone, he retired to his old room, wondering if - drunk as he was - he'd be able to dream up an appropriate apology by morning.

~+~

Isobelle yawned and poured herself a third cup of coffee. She had slept fitfully, waking nearly every hour, contemplating the empty space in her bed. Her conversation with Katie had also contributed to her less-than-restful sleep. She'd lain in the dark, wracking her memory for moments where she might have done or said something that had angered Spike, leading to last night's argument. 

A noise at the back door caught her attention. Looking out the window, she saw Katie standing on the porch, her arms filled with pastry boxes. Turning the lock, Isobelle let her in.

"Good morning, Sunshine," Katie chirped, setting the boxes on the island.

"Well, you're half-right," Isobelle replied, retrieving a mug from the cupboard for her friend. "It _is_ morning."

"Why are you so cranky… oh," Katie said, noticing the dark circles under Isobelle's eyes. "Bad night, huh?"

"You could say that."

Katie smiled and popped the tape on the boxes. "Good thing I brought bagels _and_ donuts, then. Sugar or glazed?"

"Neither," Isobelle said tersely. "Explanations."

"For what? And, don't I get coffee first?"

Isobelle handed her the mug.

"For what? Remember our conversation last night? You implied that I'd acted… badly…"

"No I didn't," Katie corrected, helping herself to the coffee. "I said you _hadn't been_ yourself."

"And again, I say 'explanation'."

"What ever happened to small talk? 'How are you, Katie?' "

"How are you Katie?"

"I'm fine, dear. You look like crap, though."

"Thanks. Well?"

Katie took a seat around the island, sipped her coffee and grimaced. She added sugar before sipping again. "Last night, you were very nice and charming and smart. Very accommodating."

Isobelle shrugged. "Then, I'm not getting it. Wasn't I supposed to be?"

"Sure, but not for two straight hours. Honestly, Iz, it was like you went Stepford on us."

"Okay, maybe lack of sleep is making me stupid… stupider… whatever… but I still don't understand what I did wrong."

"You didn't do anything wrong… exactly. But… "

"BUT _WHAT_?!"

" …you were so focused on being polite, you let a lot of stuff slide by."

"Like what?"

Katie sighed. "When Kalil said he was looking to add to his team _and_ his harem, all you did was smile and laugh."

"So? He made a joke."

"Hon, he was checking out your ass at the time."

Isobelle blinked, stunned. "Are… are you serious?"

"You didn't notice the drool?"

Isobelle sank into a chair and pressed her palms to her eyes. "I don't believe this. Are you saying that for two hours, my efforts to be a dazzling professional… failed? That they only talked to me to get a better look at my… I'm such an idiot."

"No, they weren't - not all of them. And, you're not an idiot. For what it's worth, there were a few people there who were impressed that you didn't let the frat house antics get to you… they had no clue you were oblivious to it, mind. Personally, I was impressed with your Will."

Isobelle peered at her friend through her fingers. "Really?"

Katie snickered. "The man intercepted more passes last night than a wide receiver."

"Enough with the sports metaphors. You _so _need to get pregnant again and add a girl to that horde of yours."

"Three ankle-biters are enough, believe me."

"Oh, God," Isobelle moaned. "I really messed this up, didn't I? He was right."

"I wouldn't go that far. He kinda overstated his opinion, saying you… well, we won't go there. But, yeah, he put up with a lot - for you - and at the end he was pretty frustrated."

"What am I gonna do? How do I fix it?"

"Don't know."

"Thanks. You're a lot of help."

"What I mean is, you're obsessing here. So, you had a little fight and a few - unfortunate - things were said… "

"I told him to go to hell."

"See? Another example of the unfortunate things… "

"No, that's a big deal in his case… I mean - _this_ - this case… "

"Then, it's high road time."

"Meaning?"

Katie grinned. "You get down on your knees - in whatever capacity you need to - and _make_ it better."

Isobelle looked, wide-eyed, at her friend. "Katherine Jane Forsythe, I can't believe what you've just suggested." She tried to look affronted, but wound up mirroring Katie's ever-broadening smile.

"Now _that's_ what you should have done - several times - last night." Katie tore off a piece of blueberry bagel and popped it into her mouth. "Besides, considering the man you're apologizing to, it doesn't seem like it would be such a chore… "

"It isn't," she replied, still grinning.

"There ya go! Problem solved." Katie chewed thoughtfully, watching her friend fidget with a bagel of her own. "You really like this guy, don't you?"

Isobelle drizzled a bit of honey onto her breakfast. "Yeah, I think I do."

"He like you?"

"Seems to." She licked the sticky sweetness off her fingers.

"What else?"

Isobelle sighed. "I look at him sometimes and think, 'Oh my God, this is good. Things are working here', so, for a while, I'm confident that we're going in the right direction. It's like… I forget what I've been doing with my life until he stumbled into it. But, whatever it had been, this is _better_. It _is_ better."

"And… " Katie prodded.

"And then I realize that I could wake up one morning and he could be gone. He appeared out of nowhere and he could just… leave, too. Poof. I don't know how I'd cope with that."

A long, silent moment passed. Food was forgotten. Isobelle rose from her seat and tossed out her soggy bagel. Katie's voice made her turn back around.

"You are one maudlin little girl, you know that?"

"Huh?"

"I married Dave when I was twenty-three years old. By the time I was your age, my fifth anniversary had come and gone and kid number two was on the way. Watching you and Will last night - well, mostly Will - I was trying to remember what it felt like being young and falling in love… "

"Katie… "

"…and I don't recall it being this hard. Suck it up, Isobelle and get your head on straight. He'll stick around as long as you keep one thing in mind."

"What's that?" 

"You're allowed to fight. You're allowed to get mad at one another and be childish about it, but then you get over it, and remember the second thing… "

"Second thing? There's a second thing now?"

"…which is, just because you hurt each other, doesn't mean you can't still love each other."

Isobelle slumped back against the counter in resignation. She eyed her friend as Katie prepared to leave. "You learned all that from being married to Dave?"

Katie snickered. "If I hadn't, we wouldn't still be together."

~+~

Spike sat at the top of the staircase, huddled against the spindles of the banister. He pressed his spinning head against the cool, carved wood, hands wrapping tightly around a pair of the supports. He didn't know whether to curse the pounding in his head or be grateful for it - as much as it hurt, it kept his mind off the nausea that rolled through his gut. He should have stayed in bed and tried to sleep off the hangover from hell, but voices from the kitchen had drawn him to his station on the steps.

He gripped the spindles harder, resisting the urge to stagger down the stairs and indulge in an 'I told you so'. Besides, he was only wearing boxer shorts; claiming the side of right while in his underwear was not going to earn him any new respect from his lover. At least he could be confident in the knowledge that last night hadn't been a product of his imagination being influenced by his predatorily possessive nature running wild. The validation lessened his guilt, and hearing her admit to her artless naivete' softened some of the anger. 

And she still liked him - more than liked him, it seemed. Warmth infused his body, listening as she openly declared her feelings for him, while shyly musing about his own for her. Genuine affection and consideration imbued her words, effectively driving out his earlier childish impulse. There would be no gloating on his part, no further judgments on her character or wit; his girl had stumbled last night, trying to be everything to everybody, when all she'd really needed was to be herself.

Herself. What else could she really be? He knew her true self; he had seen her essence, last night, in the look of utter shock and regret she'd flashed when she'd hit him. None of the others had ever shown any remorse for similar acts; a creature like him deserved no such consideration. But, she was nothing like them, his _others_. He had been wrong to goad her the way he did, begging for another slap and a return to something he _knew_, to a situation where the outcome - as painful as it always was - gave comfort in its predictability. 

Kick Spike. Use Spike. Toss Spike aside. Repeat. 

It was _his_ pattern as much as theirs - he'd allowed it, propagated it, and - sadly - thrived on it for decades. She didn't deserve to have - _that_ - thrown at her. 

He shook his head, intensifying the throbbing ache in his brain. He had to move past his own mistakes. Last night was a lesson: he reverted to self-destruction when hurt, and that had to change. And, for once, he found himself in a place where that could happen.

All he had to do was try. 

He heard Katie say 'good bye' and got to his feet. Hesitating a moment, he turned and headed back to his old room, moving as quickly as his aching head and soured stomach would allow. He slipped between the wrinkled sheets and, as an afterthought, shucked off the boxers, tossing them on the floor. Feigning sleep, he ignored her tentative knock, snapping his eyes closed as she carefully opened the door. 

"Spike?"

He growled in his 'sleep', rolling over onto his stomach and burying his head in the pillow, his arms splayed around unruly frosted curls, his un-scarred profile exposed to her view. The carpet sighed under her feet as she crept towards the bed. He could smell cinnamon and honey as she got closer; he groaned - for real - as his stomach lurched from the scent, a response due in equal measures to the hangover, his desire to find the part of her coated with that spicy sweetness and… 

He clenched his jaw as another wave of nausea rolled through his gut.

__

Fucking hangover.

A dull _click _signaled something being set on the nightstand. The mattress sagged slightly as she perched on the side of the bed. She knelt close, her warm skin pressed into the curve of his extended shoulder, brushing his flank. For what seemed a long time, she simply sat there, not moving or speaking. He found himself holding his breath, tensing with each silent minute that ticked by. When he felt her fingers combing through his tangled hair, he sighed, but maintained the illusion of sleep. She lightened her touch but didn't stop, putting order to the springy locks, each pass of her hand venturing farther down his crown, until she let it rest on his back.

"Wake up, you jerk," she murmured. "Wake up so I can tell you how sorry I am."

He winced, pretense nearly lost, as her softly spoken words intensified the throbbing in his skull. She _tsked_, pressed a kiss to his temple and left the room. Moments later, he heard the front door open and close.

He opened his eyes and scanned the room. On the night table sat a glass of water and some aspirin. He swallowed two tablets, then burrowed deeper under the sheets, wishing he had let her know that he had been awake, so that they could've talked the issue through and moved on to her friend's idea of 'apologizing'. 

__

Best be rid of the hangover, first, he decided. _And soak under the showerhead for a few hours._ He felt grimy, covered in dried, sticky liquor and - he sniffed - blood.

He cursed in misery as his stomach flipped for the dozenth time. He fought against his body's biological memory of its urge to vomit, biting down hard on the edge of the pillow.

"I'm never, ever, _ever_… gonna do that again… " 

~+~

It was dark when he awoke, the house quiet. He lay there for a moment, taking note that his head had stopped throbbing and his stomach had ceased in its efforts to jump outside of his body. He felt better. The worst of the hangover having passed, he cautiously got to his feet and crept towards the bathroom. The hot shower felt like heaven, clearing the rest of the fog from his recovering brain. He brushed his teeth - twice - and used nearly half a bottle of mouthwash, trying to get rid of pasty staleness that coated his tongue and palate.

Both cats launched at him as he entered the kitchen, begging for supper. Feeling generous, he treated them to a can of tuna. Delighted, the cats devoured their special meal in minutes, thanking their master with purrs and rubs against his calf. He brushed the fur off his jeans and scanned the room. Isobelle wasn't home and there was no note telling him where she was. 

Seeing how much the cats had enjoyed their treat, he hunted the kitchen for one of his own. Lighting on the freezer, he found more than a few blue and gold ice cream containers. 

"Well," he commented, drawing the attention of his fuzzy companions, "seems to do wonders for our mistress when she's in a lousy mood. Surprised there's any left." Taking a spoon from the dishwasher, he loaded a few pints in his arms and headed out the back door. The near-full moon illuminated the yard, its silvery light driving out the shadows and quieting the crickets. The air was thick and heavy with moist heat, making the ice cream containers frost, then sweat, dampening the unbuttoned shirt that flashed his hard, muscled chest.

He sat under the chestnut tree and popped the lid off one of the pints. Scooping a generous amount of the melting stuff, he sucked the mouthful off the spoon and let it run down his throat.

"Bugger that!" he grimaced. It was vile. He stared at the container in his hand, searching for the flavour.

Cookie Dough.

With a scowl, he pitched it over his shoulder and into the neighbour's bushes. Snatching up another container, he read the label.

"Cherry Truffle. Sounds safe." 

He pried the lid off, this time taking a more cautious scoop. He grinned, the creamy mixture smooth on his tongue. He picked through the pint, digging out the chunks of chocolate and cherries, sucking off the ice cream before crunching the bits between his teeth.

He leaned against the tree trunk and ate, waiting for her to come home. He needed to talk to his girl.

His girl.

He kept thinking of her that way. It felt nice. 

He could only hope that after they'd thrashed through this latest drama, she'd feel the same way.

~+~

Isobelle tiptoed in the front door, realizing even as she minced across the hardwood, that if Spike was in the house, he already knew she was home. 

What she'd intended to be a short walk to organize her thoughts had turned into a tour of the city. After wandering for more than an hour through downtown, window-shopping and mingling with the tourists, she'd found herself at the gates of one of the city's jewels: an authentic Victorian garden, teeming with exotic flowers and trees, swans, ducks and the ever-present pigeons. She'd settled on one of the iron benches, watching the water-birds glide across the pond. Pigeons had pestered her for peanuts she didn't have, which had prompted more than one three-year-old to toddle over and press a salty handful into her palm. 

Apologizing to Spike wasn't what weighed on her mind. It was Katie's comment, spoken with that knowing little smirk she had when she felt she'd figured out some big secret, that had distracted her all afternoon.

__

…trying to remember what it felt like being young and falling in love… 

It was partly true. There were times, moreso in recent days, where she'd look upon him, the strength of the emotions rent from her heart frightening in their intensity. The idea of really _loving_ someone was thrilling and scary and novel; this was new territory for her, no-one else had ever come close to meaning as much to her as he was becoming. 

Katie had called her maudlin; she preferred to think she was just sensitive. Maybe paranoid, too. The only true romance that had affected her life had been her parents' marriage; the idea of someone making her love them that completely, giving oneself with utter abandon and trust…

He wasn't in his old room, or their bed. The lights were off on the main floor, the rooms empty. Sighing, she went to the kitchen and looked out the window. She saw him sitting under the tree, barefoot, shirt gaped to tease with a glimpse of alabaster skin. Her heart spasmed with one of those blasted strong emotions, tightening her chest. 

As if sensing her presence, he looked up and caught her gaze, smiling. She went outside and joined him on the grass.

'Where you been?" he asked, licking the back of his spoon. One empty ice cream container lay at his side, another half-finished one melting in his lap.

"Just out, walking. Thinking."

"Missed you when I regained consciousness. Thanks for the present, by the way."

"You're welcome. How's your head?"

"Still attached and working."

He scooped a spoonful into his mouth. "Vanilla Caramel Brownie. Not as good as the Cherry Truffle, but tasty."

"I think there's Cookie Dough in the freezer," she commented. He made a gagging noise. She chuckled. "Have an opinion about that one, do you?"

"Cookie Dough is evil," he intoned. "Never again will it enter the house."

A few quiet moments passed. She watched him eat. He sent her curious looks over the bowl of his spoon, wondering if she was going to apologize, or if he should be the adult for once and tell her it didn't matter.

"Spike… " she began, her voice trembly, "I want… "

"Taste?" he asked.

"Uh… "

"Here. Nice chunk of brownie in this one."

He slid the spoon between her lips, admiring the way they claimed the creamy offering.

"It's good, no?"

"It's good."

He fed her another mouthful and licked the spoon clean, sticking it into the container. She opened her mouth to speak. He dropped the pint to the ground and pulled her close, kissing her long and hard.

"Spike," she gasped when he finally released her. "What… "

"Shush," he ordered. "Don't speak, just listen. Things happened. Things were said. Heat of the moment stuff. Your bad. My bad. Fucked up on both sides. Don't care about any of it and not keen on wasting any more time fretting over it. We can both be sorry and agree that we each forgive the other for temporary stupidity and blindness, yeah? Tell me that makes more sense than some long, drawn out… "

It was his turn to be silenced with a kiss.

"Yes, yes, I agree, I do… whatever you say," she replied. "Spike, I… "

"Not now. Later. Let's go make up the proper way."

__

Damn, Katie, Isobelle thought, as she and Spike kissed and groped their way into the house, _you may be onto something here…._

~+~


	15. Union

Archive: If you like. Just let me know where!

Disclaimer: Joss' toys. Just playing. Don't sue me! I have nothing you want.

Thanks to my wonderful Beta Sylvia, who keeps me on track, literate and allows for girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.

E-mail: spikeswillingslave@yahoo.ca

A/N #1: This chapter is dedicated to my amazing, perfect, supportive, effulgent Beta, Sylvia. She's been an unending source of encouragement and editorial assistance for me and I truly could not have imagined this story progressing as it has without her input and guidance. Saying 'thank you' does not begin to express the depth of my gratitude for this treasure of a gal.

A/N #2: taps sign that says 'Girly Selfishness Ahead. You've been warned. J 

A/N #3: This is most definitely 'R' rated. If you'd like to sample this chapter's more risqué counterpart, it can be found at www.the-crypt.net/ . 

A/N #4: For those readers having had enough of this adventure, this chapter does have an ending. If you'd like it to continue, read the epilog. J 

~+~

__

It was still there.

Spike lay very still, cheek pillowed on a soft spread of warm, silky skin, listening to the sounds of early morning stir outside the bedroom window. Lazy with contentment, unwilling to move, or speak, or do anything to break the perfection of the moment, he allowed himself to only flutter open heavy eyelids and enjoy his surroundings.

He'd slept tangled in her legs, head resting on her belly, her gentle respirations and thrum of her pulse having lulled him to sleep the night before. They'd 'made up' in proper fashion, with a quick, hard, bed-shaking shag. The rest of the night they'd devoted to discovering - for what seemed the hundredth blissful time - all the deep, delicious pleasures that could be wrung from a body by lips, tongues, fingers and hands until, with his last reverential act between her thighs, they'd fallen into a sated sleep.

He felt whole, integrated - physically _and_ ethereally. And, unlike Angel's soul, _his_ didn't seem to come with any strings attached. Perfect happiness. The concept was mind-boggling. What was that actually like? Was his soul free of such caveats or - a more impossible thought - was there was something better to be had than what had been shared last night? 

He couldn't have imagined himself in this position three months ago - cared for, respected and subjected to the same decency and consideration every walking being expected from others. That he wasn't dust in that Godawful cave, or - more appropriately - crumbled and swirling around the Slayer's high-heeled boots, was miracle enough. But, this life he'd stumbled into, this other soul that coddled and nourished his own - even a hint of it existing as part of his future reality - was inconceivable, to the point of being fantasy.

"What are you doing down there?"

He tilted his head up and looked towards the voice. Slim fingers furrowed his hair as she cleared his messy, lengthening locks from his brow.

"Thinkin'." 

" 'bout?"

"Stuff."

Isobelle stretched, giving him the opportunity to snake his arms under her hips, and hug her around the waist.

"You didn't sleep down there all night, did you?"

"Mmm. It's my new favourite spot."

Pulling on his shoulders, she urged him to the head of the bed. "Favourite spot or not, get up here." Grumbling, he flopped beside her, mashing his pillows against the headboard and collecting her to his chest.

"Looks like a nice day out there," she commented, squinting at the thick curtains shielding the windows. "From what I can see, at least."

"Well, the sun's shinin', and that's good a reason as any to stay in bed and hide under the covers. Whadda ya say, love? Sound like a plan?"

"Yeah, and a nice one," she replied. She moved over his supine form and settled on top of his hips. "But, I have to work." Hands balancing her weight on his chest, she leaned forward and lightly kissed his mouth. "What?" she asked, noting his grin.

"Kinda like this perspective. Lookin' up at you."

"A submissive, huh? Never would've guessed it." She kissed him again and rested back onto his thighs. "Not much of a dom, sweetie, but being on top has its advantages."

"You were pretty controlling last night, if I recall. Once or twice, you had me close to begging."

"Well," she giggled, "Something must've inspired me. Maybe it was that noise you made when I… "

She bent her head down and covered his chest with tiny kisses, her tongue lashing out to tease his nipples into hard peaks. Her mouth roved lower, traveling over the hard muscles of his abdomen, blessing his skin with her lips, his sighs and moans spurring her on. He was unabashedly ready for her, unleashing an anguished growl when she took him in her mouth. 

"Baby, please, oh please… " he breathed, a raspy, shuddering entreaty as she tasted him. He was at her mercy, made helpless by her ministrations, her caring and talented mouth making him arch off the mattress and howl. She lifted her head and smiled.

"Close, but not what I heard last night."

She teased him a bit longer, working him until he was panting: long, ragged breaths interspersed with his wordless sounds of pleasure echoed off the bedroom walls. She felt his fingers twine through her hair. She needed no encouragement, continuing her sweet torture until she felt him shudder.

"Christ, 'belle!" he wailed, gripping the sheets as he came.

"Better," she murmured, crawling back up his body. "Still, not like what I heard last night. It was more of a purring… "

She was cut off as Spike roughly pressed his mouth over hers, pushing his tongue into the hot cavern, tasting his own saltiness on her flesh. He kissed her until her hands fluttered on his arms, signaling her need to breathe. 

"Spike, please… " she groaned. "I need to… OW!" 

She tasted metal and swiped her lip with the pad of her thumb. It came away smeared with blood.

"You bit my lip."

"Sorry baby," he said, still panting from before. "I… I didn't mean to."

Spike was transfixed by the crimson on her thumb. Isobelle watched his eyes grow wide, the pupils dilating as he stared at the stain on her skin. More curious than scared, she brought her thumb to his lips and wet them with her blood. His tongue darted out and accepted her offering. She slid her thumb between his lips and let him suck it clean.

Spike's head was spinning. Sweet, tangy human blood - his lover's blood - slid with a blessed burn down his throat, warming him to his very core. He saw her stare, amazed at the effect of her few, precious drops. The shame of wanting her blood, to have it fill his mouth, had faded; she'd given him a taste, freely sharing herself with his demon. He cupped her face with shaking hands and guided her to his mouth. Taking her injured lip between his own, he gave it a small kiss before gently sucking on the wound. Thin ribbons of blood flowed from the tiny puncture. She kissed him in return, pressing her body to his, straddling the sharp edge of his hip. She rocked her pelvis against him, in time to his sips, feeling her own orgasm start to build. His control began to waver and he silently cursed as he felt his other face shift into place. If Isobelle noticed, she didn't let it show. She continued to kiss him, throwing her arms around his neck and squeezing her thighs tightly on his hip, soon shuddering with her own release.

Her orgasm was quick and intense. She pulled her mouth from his and tried to focus her blurry eyes on his face. She blinked, managing to see the final moment of his transformation from game face to human.

They lingered in stunned silence, neither one sure of what to say to the other. Spike started to speak when the doorbell rang. Isobelle scrambled off his lap and shrugged on her robe.

"Can you get that?" she asked. "I'm not really… " she indicated the robe, " … and I should jump in the shower… "

"Sure, love," he replied, climbing into his jeans. "And, what do you want… " He looked up from buttoning his fly to see her dash to the bathroom. " …for breakfast?"

Dejected, he cursed his lack of control as he descended the stairs. 

He found a courier waiting at the door, pen tapping in boredom as Spike worked the lock.

"Yeah?"

The courier thrust a small package into Spike's hand and presented a clipboard. "Signature here, print there," he droned.

"Do you know what bloody time it is?" Spike groused, scribbling in the appropriate spaces.

"Sometime before 8:00 AM sir, just like the delivery specified." He tore a carbon-copied receipt from the board and adhered it to the package. "Have a nice day."

Spike shut the door with an indulgent _slam_ and headed to the kitchen. While she showered, he poured juice and hulled strawberries, trying to keep occupied until she made an appearance. The package was a curiosity, but the morning's events distracted his attention from it and onto whatever Isobelle would say or do when she came down the stairs.

"Who was at the door?" she inquired, breezing into the kitchen. She was dressed in khakis, with his blue button-down worn over a simple white T-shirt. He noticed her lower lip was slightly swollen, with whatever bruise he'd made camouflaged by a bit of lipstick.

"Delivery guy."

"With?"

"Package."

She flashed a tentative smile. "Package of what?"

He reciprocated her effort. "Dunno. Wasn't addressed to me."

They sat at the table, Spike, sipping his orange juice, watching her tear into the parcel. Under the brown paper wrap was a small rectangular box, stamped with the logo of a local print shop. She _tsked_ when she saw what was inside.

"Well?" he asked, with a tinge of impatience. "What is it?"

She carefully pulled one of the business cards from the box and sighed.

"A mindfuck."

He coughed, nearly spraying the tabletop with juice. "A _what_? What the hell did you just say? I've never heard you… "

"Yeah, delicate thing that I am, I rarely curse with the joyful abandon you do, but, gotta call a spade a spade here, and this is a… "

"Mindfuck. Got it. Care to explain?"

She handed him one of the cards. It was embossed with her name and titled with the fellowship position she was seeking. 

"Does this mean you got the job?"

She shook her head. "Nope. Guaranteed, at least three other folks got similar packages this morning. It's the Program Director's way of putting you on notice that you're being - _considered_. And to keep on your toes. No time for screw-ups."

"Or distractions," he added, tucking the card back into the box. 

"You're not a distraction," she admonished, rising from her chair, "you're… necessary."

" 'belle, about before… " he started. She interrupted him with a quick kiss.

"Later, okay? I gotta run." Grabbing her bag from the floor, she slid out the back door. "I love you," she called, before dashing out of sight.

He gaped, slack-jawed, at the closing door.

__

What the hell… 

~+~

Isobelle idled at the red light, staring at the bumper in front of her. She reached down and turned on the radio, humming softly along with the song.

__

…'Cause you and I can walk on water

The river rises, we rise above…

The light flashed green and the line of cars edged slowly forward in the morning crush of traffic.

__

It may not look that way right now…

Red light. She had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting the car in front of her.

__

But trust me baby… this is love

This is love.

__

I love you.

Realization dawned. She gripped the steering wheel as panic settled in her gut.

__

I love you.

Green light.

"Dammit."

~+~

Spike rolled the last strawberry through a plate of brown sugar and popped it in his mouth. He'd eaten nearly a quart of berries in that manner and was starting to feel queasy.

__

Blame it on the sugar, instead of her words, he thought, licking the remains from his fingers.

__

I love you.

She'd spoken them so casually, not so much as an afterthought, but as a given, a truth that didn't need stating. Like it was just to be assumed. She loved him. 

__

Bye, honey. I might be late. I love you.

A normal thing that normal people said to one another - but never to him. 

He stashed the plate in the dishwasher and started to pace. What was he going to do? Should he do anything? Was she even aware that she'd said it?

Did he love her?

He paused, scanning his surroundings.

Did it matter?

__

Yes, for God's sake. 

It mattered. If it didn't, then he'd learned nothing from this encounter, from this fresh, sweet life that had taken him in, that had shown him how different things could be. If it didn't, his quest had been for naught, succeeding only in adding to his torment and not bettering his ability to forge genuine, caring connections with others.

__

No, scratch that, he thought. He'd always known how to love. What was it Dru had said? Something about knowing how to love, but not loving wisely. That was it. Love's Bitch in a nutshell. He'd always been the one to put himself out there first: with Cecily, then Dru… and, _her_. Buffy. He'd profess; they'd either accede to the claim, or reject it. Or, they'd ask for it, demand his statement, whether they relished the affirmative response or were disgusted by it.

__

Your poetry. It's… they're not written about me… are they?

Dear Cecily… 

__

I do see you.

You're beneath me.

He rubbed his eyes against the sting of the memory.

__

Do you love my insides? The parts you can't see?

Darling Dru…

__

You taste like ashes…

"You always knew best, love," he muttered. 

__

Tell me you love me.

Tell me you want me.

Buffy.

That was the hard one, the one least reconciled. It had been her - and only her - for so long. To want someone else, after everything… the declarations, the gestures, gratefully doing her will and accepting whatever she meted out in return. And, his contrition - his betterment of self, his to-the-ends-of-the-earth journey - all for her. Had his motivations been so shallow, his sentiment so immature, that he could forget what she still meant to him and move on?

No. The feelings were still there. Tucked away, under newer layers of contentment and affinity, his love for Buffy remained, an underscore to the composition that had become his sense of love - muted, but ever present.

He loved Buffy. It just wasn't _everything_, anymore. It didn't burn, it didn't torment. It didn't push to be examined or expressed, or even returned. He loved her. He could live with that.

But Isobelle…

She'd made the claim first. Whether wittingly or not, she'd said it. 

And he'd heard it.

But, did he love her, too?

He wanted to. It would make things so much easier. He cared for her. She moved him deeply, completely affecting his life on such a basic level, that, could he even define his life - as it was now - without her in it? 

He shook his head. That was the wrong reason for reciprocation. That was what had led to every romantic downfall in his existence. He had reclaimed his soul, and, de facto, his life. This was as close to a new start as any creature got; this was his chance to _not_ make the same mistakes again.

__

I love you. 

Did he love her?

Maybe. Probably.

That would do - for now; the truth would come soon enough. He smiled with contentment, secure in the knowledge that he'd come to his most honest answer, and in anticipation of requited affection.

~+~

Isobelle opened her locker and frowned. She peered into the mirror on the back of the door and daubed more lipstick over her bruise. The swelling hadn't gotten any worse, but the blemish had darkened to a rich plum over the course of the day. 

"Well," she sighed, "At least I got my answer." She had been wondering for some time if, in the course of their intimacy, Spike would take the opportunity to feed from her. The idea of it didn't repel her; she had been more curious than disgusted by the thought. Nor had it been unpleasant. He'd been so gentle, and it had felt so good…

Katie burst through the changing room doors and rattled the front of her locker.

"Are you ready for tonight?" she asked, collecting her bag.

"Tonight? Yeah, sure," Isobelle replied. _Wait. Tonight?_ "Uh, Katie, what do you mean?"

"Journal review, idiot. Second Tuesday of the month, remember?"

"No," she sighed, slamming her locker door closed. "I did _not_ remember." She turned to her friend. "Think if I skip it I'll be missed?"

"Probably."

"Damn." She slumped in resignation against the locker. Tonight of all nights, she wanted to get home. She'd tossed out an 'I love you' this morning and she needed to assess for damages. If she messed this up, she'd regret it.

"The only way around it is… "

Isobelle perked up. "Yes?"

"You could cover triage. It's kinda busy at the moment. Good a reason as any to skip out on the review."

"And get stuck here half the night? Not what I had in mind."

"New staff will sign in at 8:00pm… review could go 'til midnight." Katie shrugged. "Your call, kiddo. But, judging from that look you've had on your face all day… "

"What look?"

"The 'I've been thoroughly fucked and loved it' look. No wonder you want to get home."

Isobelle shook her head. "You amaze me. You look so normal." She sighed. "Triage, huh?"

"And you have tomorrow off. Go for it. Go get laid. One of us should."

~+~

"So, _how_ late will you be?"

Spike eyed the bubbling pot of water on the stove, mentally tracking the minutes until the pasta went from edible noodles to mush. Reducing the heat, he took the portable phone out onto the back deck.

"No, no… I understand, love… No, nothing at all, really… just… hung around." He paced the boards, listening to her apologize again. "No worries. I… just, come home when you can, yeah?" He chuckled into the receiver. "Right. 'bye."

He returned the handset to the cradle and surveyed the kitchen. Pasta on the stove, salad ripped and chopped on the island, and the dining room decked out for a simple, romantic supper.

The timer on the stove sounded. He removed the pasta from the heat and strained it, then sucked one of the noodles into his mouth.

"Perfect," he murmured, before dumping it all into a storage container, and packing away the rest of the lost meal.

~+~

The hall clock read 10:00 PM when she finally made it home. The place was dark. With a tired sigh she tossed her keys on the hall table and shut the door behind her. She was supposed to have been home hours ago, but one case after another had rolled through triage and she hadn't been able to get away. When she'd called Spike to tell him she'd be late, he didn't say anything about going out, but the darkened house indicated he had left. No note was on the table. She frowned. He was usually good about letting her know where he was going, especially if he was patrolling. 

She was only mildly disappointed he wasn't there. She hadn't worked out what she'd wanted to say about the events of that morning and her spontaneous declaration as she'd left the house. Hopefully she'd come up with something sensible and not too humiliating by the time he returned. It wasn't that she hadn't meant it; as the day progressed and she mulled the last few weeks over in her mind, she'd concluded Katie, as usual, had been right. She'd been falling in love with him and now, with it 'out there', she'd decided that there was no reason to be coy about it any longer. 

She kicked off her shoes and shed his button-down (which she'd worn all day under her lab coat), draping it over the staircase railing. Padding down the hallway she saw the cats, curled up asleep on the sofa, Dante draped around Miranda, the pair quite content. Heading towards the kitchen, her eye caught sight of something in the dining room. She sighed. Candles decorated the table and place settings for two had been carefully laid out between her grandmother's silverware. An ice bucket sweated on the sidebar, a fine white wine still chilling in the melting slush. _No wonder he didn't_ _leave a note,_ she thought. In the kitchen, meal preparations had been underway, the fridge stocked with food he never had the chance to serve. The amount of effort he'd obviously gone to touched her and, now, she'd ruined those plans by being late. Not that it was her fault, but in light of this morning, the sooner they talked things out, the better she'd feel. 

Hopefully he didn't think her being late was her way of avoiding him; he was more than aware of how unpredictable her schedule could be. But now, when he came home tonight, she'd make sure he knew that she appreciated his gesture. 

Grabbing the ice bucket, she added more ice and took it and a pair of wineglasses upstairs, to their bedroom. Shedding her clothes, she slipped on a robe and went to the bathroom. Double-checking the time, she decided she had enough leeway to take a bath. She ran the water, added a generous dollop of vanilla bath gel, lit a few candles and slid in.

She smiled. She'd meant what she'd said that morning. Before the night was over, he'd know it, too.

~+~

Spike quietly opened the front door and slipped inside. The house was dark, just as he'd left it a couple hours ago, but he knew it wasn't empty. He noticed her shoes, carelessly strewn in the entranceway, her keys on the side table, and heard the running water upstairs. With a smile, he locked the door, added his jacket to the railing and proceeded upstairs. 

~+~

Isobelle closed her eyes and leaned against the warmed porcelain, feeling the tension ooze from her body. Her mind wandered, considering all ways she would show Spike her appreciation, each new thought making her flush with anticipation.

~+~

As quietly as he could, Spike eased himself into the doorway. He watched as she stretched under the warm water. The way she arched her back to settle deeper into the bath made his stomach tighten, a warm thrill of excitement spreading through to his limbs. He saw the tiny smile that played across her lips; even in the soft candlelight, he could tell she was blushing, the colour painting her cheeks unrelated to the bath.

If his heart could beat, that smile would have killed him. How could such a small gesture make him feel so much?

"Now there's a pretty picture."

She smiled at the sound of his voice; she adored it. Sonorous, seductive, gentle, it thrilled her just to hear him speak.

"You like what you see?"

"Well, I don't _dislike_ it, that's for sure."

"Sorry I was late," she said, turning to the doorway. "I ruined your surprise."

" 's alright, love. It's the risk you run doing things covertly." He leaned in the doorframe, looking at her; the way he did it made Isobelle blush more. Not that he could see much under the bubbles, but the expression on his face told her his mind was working around the problem.

"You're not too upset?" she asked. God, all he had to do was look at her, and she was tingling all over.

"Well," he said, levering himself out of the doorframe and towards the bath, "I did have the overwhelming urge to go kill something. Dusted a couple of fledglings. That seemed to do the trick." He knelt by the bath, dipping a finger in the water, letting it bead and drip down as he drew it across her cheek. "But now I have other things on my mind." She sighed at his touch.

"Really? Anything I can help with?"

"As a matter of fact…" he let the reply trail as he leaned over the edge of the bath, lightly kissing her lips. Their coolness sent a shiver through her. She craned her neck to deepen the contact but he pulled away slightly. "Are you hungry?" he asked.

"What?" 

"Hungry. You know, 'Mmm, food'. You missed supper. So did I, matter of fact. Feeling a bit peckish after all that fighting tonight…"

Isobelle's hand splashed out of the water and grabbed a handful of his shirt, pulling him back down to her. "I don't want food," she said, wetting her lips. Two pairs of dark blue eyes connected as Isobelle leaned in and kissed him. She felt him smile under her mouth as her tongue flicked forward to tease his lower lip. Encouraged, she opened her mouth slightly to invite his tongue inside, and he complied, moving a hand behind her head to keep her mouth pressed to his. Air soon became a priority for her, her head swimming from more than just his kisses. Reluctantly, he moved away from her warm, inviting mouth and she took a much-needed breath. Being so close, his scent filled her as she breathed him in, clean and masculine, one of soap, damp earth, and sandalwood. His undead heart sparked at the dizziness in her eyes. _I did that, _he thought with satisfaction. _I made her feel it._

"You want to join me?" she asked.

"I'm a bit overdressed. Was having a good time watching you, though."

Isobelle shifted under the water so that she was leaning on her left side. Folding her arms on the edge of the tub, she rested her chin on her forearms and sent Spike a thoughtful look.

"Undress for me?" 

He sat on the floor and began to unlace his boots. She watched his long pale fingers work the laces, imagining them on her skin. She giggled as he balled his socks together, tossed them at the laundry bin, and missed. Shifting back a bit, he stood up and began to unbutton his shirt, revealing a hard, sculpted chest that looked like fine white marble in the candlelight. He let the shirt drop to the floor and stood there for a minute. Just the way she was looking at him made him hard. Now _that_ reminded him of poor lost William. Taking a small, unneeded breath, he unbuckled his belt and the button on his jeans. He made no effort to conceal the bulge in his pants, the zipper straining as his erection grew. Carefully he unzipped and stepped out of the jeans, kicking them out of the way.

Isobelle was mesmerized. His beauty always took her by surprise. He was a contrast of fine and delicate with strength and danger, the passivity he sometimes displayed cut by the pure masculinity he possessed. He was exquisite; sometimes she found it hard to believe this sublime creation wanted to be with her.

Moving back to the side of the bath, Spike caught Isobelle's mouth in a deep kiss. His tongue pushed past her lips to twine with hers before pulling its hotness into his own cool mouth. His hands caressed her back in long, lazy strokes. He felt a sigh escape from her lips as her own hands clutched his arms in an attempt to hold him closer. He slid his left hand from her back over her ribcage, drawing his thumb over her right nipple. She moaned against his mouth and he leaned back slightly, allowing her to take a breath. His hand continued to stroke her breast until it peaked under his palm. Isobelle trembled at his touch, silvery threads of pleasure lacing through her body. He planted soft feathery kisses on her forehead, eyes and face, letting his hand roam from her breast down her abdomen and below the water. His hand found the soft flesh between her thighs, making her gasp as he trailed one finger lazily around the sensitive skin.

His touch thrilled her, her body aching to have his fingers, his hands - any part of him - on and in her. He stroked her slowly, widening his range, so that it came close to, but never reached, that needy place. As silent encouragement, she eased her legs further apart to give him better access to her body. She heard him chuckle quietly, but he continued to steadily tease her, never altering his pace. All her nerves were on edge, the sensations becoming intense, making her yearn for more. Her hips thrashed slightly in the water, trying to spur him on, and she moaned in frustration when he didn't comply.

"Patience, love," he murmured into her ear, licking the curve, moving to nuzzle her neck. "We've got plenty of time… "

He watched her, squeezing her eyes shut, resting her head on his shoulder, as she tried to slow the deep ragged breaths that were coming from her chest. He could hear the quickening of her heartbeat, the rhythm deep and strong, beating for the both of them.

"Spike, please…" she panted, kissing the hard muscle of his chest. Her left arm snaked around his neck, water running in tiny rivers down his back as she ran her nails over his skin. With a slight turn of his wrist, he changed the angle of his assault and slid one finger into her tight, wet body, her muscles clamping down to hold him in place. He moved in and out of her, carefully stretching her to allow him to slip a second finger inside, as his thumb grazed the hard bundle of nerves above her entrance. She met each of his movements with her own, rolling her hips in time with each wave of pleasure. 

She was killing him. She was so responsive, so eager, he could hardly stand it. His erection pressed painfully against the side of the bath, and he ground his teeth against the discomfort. It didn't help that the heat of her body, mingling with the steaming bath water, filled the air and his head with the scent of her desire. Sight, smell, touch, taste, sound – every sense he had was dominated by her, drowning him with her essence, her need, her want... 

For him.

She wanted him.

__

Truly wanted him. 

She started to tremble in his arms, her tiny gasps becoming cries. "That's it, baby, come for me," he whispered into her dark hair, "I've got you." She arched hard against his hand and cried out, waves of devastating ecstasy rippling through her body.

Only after she had stopped writhing against his palm did he remove his fingers and slip away from her. She whined in protest as he stepped back to retrieve a towel from the rack. Draping it over one shoulder, he went back and helped her climb out of the tub. "I wanted you to join me," she murmured, circling her arms around his neck. He wrapped the towel around her and began to pat her dry. "Didn't you like that?" he asked, pressing his forehead to hers as he concentrated on the task at hand. She swayed against him, causing the towel to brush roughly against his groin. "Of course," she responded, enjoying the small groan he made, "But, being with you has made me selfish. I want you," she kissed him, a soft, innocent kiss, "All of you." She kissed him again, with more urgency, pressing as close to his body as the towel would allow. He wrapped his arms securely around her back, pulling her lower lip into his mouth, nibbling, tasting…

__

Damn, he thought, _could she be any more perfect…_

Never releasing her lips, Spike scooped her into his arms and made his way to the bedroom. She pulled her mouth from his and showered small kisses on his cheek, neck and shoulder, her tongue darting out between kisses to lick and taste his skin. Laying her out on their bed, he loosened the towel and she quickly wriggled out of it, pressing her hot skin against his long, firm body. She loved the feel of him against her, how his cool flesh soaked up her body heat when they were together, how the curve of his hip fit perfectly against the inside of her thigh. How that, even before he was inside her, they were always eye to eye, the intimacy of seeing, watching his face, as they came together, as intense as the physical act they would share. 

Spike ran his tongue over her open mouth, dipping it inside briefly as he nipped her lips, then down her chin and neck, towards the cleft between her breasts. She sighed, draping her arms to over his shoulders, kneading the muscles of his back. He moved his busy mouth to one of her breasts, flicking his tongue over the nipple until it peaked. Satisfied, he moved to the other breast; he sucked her nipple into his mouth, worrying the tip with his teeth. She shuddered beneath him. Her hands roamed over his back and around to his chest, her nails dragging lightly over his skin, causing shivers of pleasure to ripple through his torso. The ache in his groin was becoming unbearable. He bit back a growl as her hand wrapped possessively around his erection, giving it a squeeze before passing its length along her palm.

"Careful, pet," he told her, fixing her with what he hoped passed for a serious stare. "I'm not going to last if you keep that up, and I'm not quite done yet."

She smirked at the look on his face; if he was attempting to be the picture of manly control, he had failed badly. For someone who didn't need to breathe to live, she had him panting.

"I want you inside me," she murmured, stroking him again, "Now." He moaned loudly, biting his lip. He took her wrist in his hand and she released him, but not before giving him another long hard caress.

"You're just evil," he said, letting her wrist drop. Her eyes fixed on his as he grabbed her hips and planted a loud, wet, sucking kiss on her navel. She giggled aloud, writhing against him.

"Stop!" she gasped. "That tickles! No tickling! That's the rule!"

"That's payback, baby, for distracting me." 

He set his arms on either side of her body, leaning his weight on his forearms, hovering over her. She hooked her left leg over his hip, letting her right curl up, her sole firmly fixed to the mattress, her knee caging him in on his flank. Their eyes met, and this time he didn't protest when she reached down and took him in her hand, guiding him into her. With a slow thrust he pushed inside, taking his time, letting her muscles stretch and get used to his size. Each time she relaxed, he moved in deeper, until he could go no further and they were locked together. He ran his hands through her dark hair, the curls silky between his fingers. He captured her mouth with a slow, gentle kiss, enjoying the way her tongue played across his lips. Her hands stroked his arms and shoulders. 

She felt safe in them. 

Protected. 

Loved. 

She rotated her hips and he started, his thrusts shallow and languid, increasing in depth and intensity as she started to glide with him. With every stroke he would kiss her, on her lips, cheek, neck, breast - wherever she was exposed to him. Her moans were getting louder, her breathing ragged… 

She was close. So was he. He wanted to watch her come again. He moved one hand between them and started to stroke her, his hand moving in time with their thrusts. Her legs tightened around his torso and she tipped her pelvis up, sliding him further inside than he'd thought possible. At that moment, she came, shuddering hard around him. That, coupled with the sight of this beautiful creature writhing beneath him, pushed him to the edge, where his own release awaited him. 

Then it happened. 

He felt his features shift, and with dread, he realized his demon had shown itself.

Isobelle felt weak, the intensity of her orgasm having wrung pleasure out of every cell in her body. She trembled as the sensations still drifted through her. He was still inside her, moving in and out, keeping those feelings from completely fading away.

Unexpectedly she felt him stop. "No," he whispered, "Not now… "

Confused she looked up at him, but he had turned his face away.

"Spike? What's wrong? Look at me."

"I can't … " he rasped, avoiding her gaze. "I can't, I'm sorry… "

Distracted, he didn't notice as she reached up with her left hand and cupped the side of his face. He flinched at her touch and tried to pull away, but she still had her legs locked around his torso, and he was still deep inside her.

Once her hand met his face, she knew what had happened. Just like that morning.

"Look at me," she repeated, urging him to face her, with her palm on his cheek. Reluctantly, he complied. The deep blue eyes she adored were gone, bright gold ones in their place, set off by hard ridges on his forehead. Tenderly she ran a finger over those ridges, brushing his pale curls out of the way so that she could see all of his face. Sharp fangs protruded from his beautiful mouth. Sadness glinted in those feral eyes, and he tried to duck away from her again. She stopped him with a soft kiss, pressing her lips against the razor-edged fangs.

"Shh, stop," she murmured. "I told you before I wanted you… all of you." She moved under him, making him growl. "Please, Spike, it's your turn. Come for me, baby. I've got you."

Moved beyond words, Spike pressed his ridges to her forehead and started making love to her again. She sighed deeply at his touch, moving with him at every thrust. It didn't take long for him to feel himself start to go. Isobelle sensed he was close when she felt a harsh rumble well up in his chest. His thrusts became forceful as he got closer to coming. He buried his face in her neck, grazing the skin over her jugular with those long, sharp teeth. 

Nuzzling her lips to his ear, she whispered "It's okay, love. Do it." She turned her head away from him, fully exposing her pale neck. He drove into her harder, the rumbling she felt turning into a growl. With one final thrust, he buried himself deep inside her and came, roaring as he bit down on her skin.

The pain she expected didn't come. A small sting was all she felt, then his lips sucking at the wound. Bright colours sparkled behind her eyes. She felt soft, floaty. As the sounds of his release echoed and faded in her ears, the colours dimmed and she slipped into the peaceful blackness beyond.

~+~

He sat, crouched at her side, rocking back and forth on the mattress. The coils grated with his motions, so he stopped, kept very still, and listened.

There were twelve that time. A dozen soft, shallow breaths, fluttering out of her lungs, over the last minute. That was better than before, when her thin respirations had barely been ten per minute.

He tucked the sheet tightly around her, and counted for another minute. 

Twelve.

Fourteen.

Twelve.

"O… open your eyes, love," he whispered. "C'mon, baby, please - try for me."

Isobelle didn't stir. Her shuttered eyes were dark against the glowing white of her skin, the plum stain on her lip the only colour to be found on her pretty face.

He hadn't taken that much; a few heady sips was all he'd managed before he came - before he realised something was terribly wrong. 

"I… I can't have hurt you. The chip… it… it won't let me hurt… "

Tears stung his eyes. He rested his head on her chest, listening to the thready patter of her heartbeat. He lay there awhile, continuing his delicate pleas for her to wake up. She remained silent and still. With great effort he finally pulled himself away and stumbled to the bathroom. Filling a basin with warm soapy water, he returned to her side and bathed her. With infinite care he ran the cloth over her - cleansing her face, the two modest puncture wounds on her neck - wiping her clean, ridding her of his scent, his kisses, his defiling touch. Lastly, he gently parted her thighs, crying as the last traces of his act were washed from her body.

Bundling her in a blanket, he carried her to one of the spare rooms, slipped one of his T-shirts over her and tucked her in bed. He waited, counting again (_twelve, fourteen, fourteen, twelve…_), before returning to their room. He tore the soiled sheets from the bed, rending the wet fabric in his hands, tossing it to the floor. He sank to his knees and beat his fists into the mattress, ignoring the scream of the springs and the cracking of the supports. He'd done it again. He'd gone too far. He'd ruined it; ruined her. His chance had been lost. There would be no begging this time, or trials to endure; no act of contrition would be worthy of earning forgiveness for this, his latest sin. 

Returning to the bathroom, he gathered his clothes. His tears ran freely, silently, as he dressed. He indulged in one last look, checking on her before he took his leave. Her respirations were stronger, deeper now, and he could hear her heartbeat from the doorway.

"I'm sorry."

He made his way through the dark house to the kitchen. He slid on his jacket, setting his keys on the counter. Hearing the jangling keys, Dante bounded in from the living room, making a beeline for the door and Spike. Spike prepared for the tackle, but was surprised when it didn't come. Dante skittered to a stop a short distance from his master. Head cocked to the side, his little feline gaze fixed on the vampire. Spike leaned over to give him a final pat. Dante shirked his hand and back-pedaled away, escaping back into the den. 

"Sorry, mate," he choked. 

He went out the door. Before it closed, locking his future away, he slipped back inside and went to the breakfast table. The printer's box still sat there from breakfast. He pulled out a thin deck of cards and stuffed them in his pocket.

"Just to remember," he muttered, walking out into the muggy night.

~+~

He'd been pounding on the door for ten minutes. She had to be in. 

"Sylvia!" he hissed, beating the wooden frame harder. "Sylvia, please, open the door."

"Do you know what fucking time it is?"

He swiveled his head to the window beside the entryway. Sylvia scowled at her visitor.

"Yes, I do," he answered. "I need your help."

"It's four in the fucking morning, Spike! What could you possibly need… " She groaned and rolled her eyes. "Did you and Little Miss Cutie have a fight or something?"

"Yes," he lied. "I need to leave."

"Damn right you do. Get the heck off my stoop and crawl back home to your honey and start begging, because you're not crashing here."

"No, I _need_ to _leave_. LEAVE!"

Sylvia narrowed her eyes. "Why? What did you do?"

"What I always do," he moaned.

__

You always hurt the one you love…

"What do you want from me, Spike? I'm not giving you money, and I don't have a car… "

"Send me. Make a portal, snap your fingers… wiggle your fucking nose if you have to, but I need you to send me away from here… "

She regarded him coolly. A vampire, begging favours, was not uncommon; this vampire though… 

"Where do you want to go?"

He gave a hard laugh. "Where I belong. Hell."

"Any particular one in mind?"

He blinked at her.

It was only fitting…

"Yeah. Send me home."

~+~

She felt so weak.

She knew she was awake; she could hear the sounds of morning outside the window, could feel the warmth of the rising sun on her face, 'see' its light glowing through her closed lids. The floaty feeling had faded; her limbs were heavy, like lead, and her head felt stuffed and thick. Thinking was hard. Breathing was hard. And everything hurt.

With great effort, she managed to open her eyes. She wasn't in their room and she was alone. She tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea forced her to lie back down. She started to panic, her heart thudding painfully in her chest as she started to hyperventilate.

"Sp… Sp… ike… " she murmured. It was barely a whisper. She struggled with the blankets and the numbing weakness, finally succeeding in slinging her legs over the edge of the bed. She tried to stand, but crashed to her knees. Her stomach heaved, spilling watery bile over the carpet.

She crawled away from the mess and huddled in a corner, panting from the effort, struggling for every breath. One hand fluttered to the left side of her neck, fingering the twin wounds. It didn't hurt; the punctures were the only things not causing her pain.

She remembered.

__

I told you before I wanted you… all of you.

It's okay, love. Do it.

She had given him permission. She'd wanted him to. 

And, it had gone wrong.

She knew he had left. 

"Sp… Spike," she choked, the tears coming fast and unbidden.

"Spike…"

~+~

Lyric credit

'Trust Me' - McTaggart, Tyson 


	16. Epilog: Lost

Archive: If you like. Just let me know where!

Disclaimer: Joss' toys. Just playing. Don't sue me! I have nothing you want.

Thanks to my wonderful Beta Sylvia, who keeps me on track, literate and allows for girly selfishness when it comes to Spike.

E-mail: spikeswillingslave@yahoo.ca

A/N: Not an epilog in the traditional sense, but you'll get the point. J 

Timeline: S7, 'Same Time, Same Place'. Dialog you recognise isn't mine. 'Nuff said.

~+~

"Keep your ticket, you'll need that."

Xander winced as Spike leaned in and pressed a grimy, dog-eared card into his palm. 

"Yeah, whatever," he intoned, inching away from the crazy, smelly vampire and closer to the Slayer. Bright, manic blue eyes mapped his retreat, darting between the precious slip of paper now gripped in Xander's hand and the pretty, petite blonde at his side. Xander considered ditching the item in the weeds, but, with Spike standing there, staring at him like an idiot, he didn't dare try. Forcing a smile, Xander stuffed the card in his pocket and discreetly placed Buffy between himself and Spike.

Spike listened as they prattled amongst themselves. He'd done what they'd asked, but they were still not satisfied.

"Maybe it's a vicious, skin-eating rock cliff."

__

Focus, focus, focus… 

Point it out. Make her proud. Show her.

"There's a cave in it. Look."

They looked. 

"I'm insane. What's his excuse?"

She didn't reply. None of them paid him any attention now. He turned on his heel and blended into the brush, into the dark; a fractured creature of the night wandering a ragged path through the weeds.

It was better out here, in this kind of darkness, where its depth was tempered by the sounds of night and nocturnal life. Not like the basement: the dank, cavernous pit where the dark was not his friend and the noises brought no comfort from the shrouding silence. The chilled, earthy air was like a tonic, de-fogging his brain and letting order touch his thoughts.

"Better, and better, and better," he chanted, dodging the clump of sand burrs to his left. "Still burdensome, still hard, but better. Better for her. Helping. Heavy load, her lot. Trying. Trying hard."

Stopping abruptly, he shoved a hand into his pants pocket and pulled out another crumpled card. He only had three left. Smoothing the edges, he stared at it, its embossed letters glittering in the glow of the almost-Harvest moon.

__

Isobelle S. Jones, MD 

"Better…"

__

Liar.

It was excruciating. The pain, the fear: it was constant and consuming, raging through him like a cold fire, fanned by _It_. His 'spark'. _It_ hated him. Loathed him. _It_ suffered - again - because of him, enduring the guilt, the despair and the loneliness. _It_ wanted to abandon him, offer him up to the torments of the basement and the derision of the others and find _Its_ own reconciliation, _Its_ own release. But, _It_ couldn't; there would be no peace in that. 

__

It had other ways of getting what _It_ wanted. 

~+~

Isobelle gasped, savouring the burn of the cold air in her lungs. Every ragged breath she drew in stung her chest, spurring her on, making her run faster. Despite the chill this October night, she felt hot. Sweat rolled down her back, soaking her shirt. Jogging at 2:00 AM wasn't very smart, especially now, when she knew what lurked in the shadows, but, fearing what went _bump_ in the dark was preferable to another night lying in bed, alone with her insomnia and thoughts of him.

And she needed it - to feel the ache in her thighs as she pounded the pavement, the bite of the autumn air on her cheeks - those tiny pains associated with activity and living. Anything to prod her out of the unfeeling stupor she'd been drowning in since he'd left, when she'd huddled on the floor and cried her last tears for him and what she'd lost. As she'd sat there, the numbness had set in, insulating her from the hurt, drying her tears. She hadn't wept since. Not at the memories that kept her awake at night, nor the little reminders of him that were still scattered around her house - she'd shed not one tear since that morning. 

Not even when Dante had died.

~+~

__

It had worked on him the whole, long walk back to the school, picking and cajoling, whispering encouragements, cracking through his guilt and madness, offering peace and lucidity if he capitulated to _Its_ wishes.

The office door was unlocked. Spike scuttled inside. Utility lights gleamed dully overhead, casting everything in sinister shadow. He shuddered and shut the door before scanning the room. He found Buffy's desk and sat in her chair, setting the card gently down on the blotter. 

__

Do it.

He couldn't call her at home - he'd never bothered to memorize the number and he didn't recognize any of the other numbers listed on the card. 

__

Do it. Do it. DO IT!

He fumbled for the phone and tapped in one of the numbers. Anxiety welled inside him, making his head buzz. After a few rings, a pleasant voice came over the receiver.

"You have reached the Orthopaedics Outpatient Clinic. Our hours of operation are… "

He slammed the handset back into the cradle.

'Not right. Not right at all… " he whined. The buzzing in his head grew louder. The soul railed inside, pushing him to try again.

__

Need her. Find her. Try!

He dialed out again. And waited. The line rang and rang. He rocked back and forth in the chair, near tears with frustration, the soul picking at him from within, the drone of the phone tormenting from without. Giving up, he went to drop the receiver when a tinny voice echoed from the handset.

"P… pardon?" he asked, whipping the phone back to his ear.

"Switchboard," came the reply, the voice dull and irritated with repeating its greeting.

"Oh."

"Can I help you, sir?"

__

Answer. ANSWER!

"Y…yes. I… I need… "

He couldn't do this; couldn't seek her out, or ask for her help, her kindness. Her forgiveness.

"What is it you need, sir?"

__

Say it. 

"Isobelle… "

~+~

She turned down her street and sprinted the rest of the way home. She collapsed on the porch, panting, watching her breath frost and hang in front of her. Heat spilled from her body, the warm sweat evaporating, chilling her to the bone. She tried not to shiver, welcoming the cold, letting it swallow her.

Dante.

It had been just another morning, creeping home in the early dawn light, a little worn and rumpled from a long night at work. She should have been prepared, but fatigue had made her slow. She'd opened the door and Dante had bolted past her. 

Into the street.

She didn't see the car; hearing the squeal of brakes-on-asphalt drew her attention to the road.

The driver was inconsolable, crying as she stared at the little body. 

Isobelle had felt nothing.

She'd buried him in the back yard, under the tree, telling the vet that he'd run away.

She pounded her fists into the boards of the porch, suddenly ashamed. That hadn't been her. _This_ wasn't her. 

She flinched as her pager trilled. Pulling it out of her pocket, she checked the number and frowned.

__

Who the hell is calling me from an outside line?

~+~

Spike waited. It was hard, holding the line, waiting for her to answer. What would she say? What should _he_ say? He wanted to hang up and run to the basement and hide, but _It_ was relentless now, pushing him to hold on a few moments more, promising more misery if he didn't.

Minutes dragged by with excruciating slowness. His eyes darted to the dark corners of the room, searching for proof he was alone, that the Other wasn't here, too, waiting to pounce.

Then he heard her. _It_ flared in response, warming him, making him giddy and sad all at once.

"This is Dr. Jones. Can I help you?"

"Is… Isobelle?"

~+~

She froze. It couldn't be. This wasn't happening. She clutched the cell phone to her ear, her mind racing. 

__

Spike?

"Is… Isobelle? Is it… are you there?"

"I… I'm here. Spike?"

She couldn't understand him, his words muddled by his gentle sobs.

"Sh, Spike, calm down. Please."

"I'm so sorry, 'belle, so, so sorry… "

"It's alright, just… where are you?"

"I'm… lost."

"Spike?"

"I'm scared… so scared… I know I deserve it but I can't… can't help it… "

She paced the length of the porch, willing herself to stay calm. She could hear him struggling for control.

"Spike, tell me where you are," she intoned. "Tell me how I can find you."

"I don't know… I… not sure if… 'belle, I can't… "

The connection crackled and Isobelle looked in alarm at her phone. The battery light was on. The power cell was dying. Cursing, she fumbled for her house keys and frantically tried to get inside.

"Spike? Hold on! The phone is giving out! DON'T HANG UP!"

Once over the threshold, she dashed for the phone in the kitchen and dialed the switchboard, begging the operator to pick up.

~+~

Spike kept the phone pressed to his ear, listening to the static wax and wane. He could barley make out her voice over the interference.

"And what do you think you're doing, boy?"

He whipped his head around, eyes widening in fear. 'Angelus' smirked at him from across the room.

"You're not playing by the rules," he scolded, waggling a finger in Spike's direction. "You're not supposed to look for help. I like you as the pathetic wretch you are. No need sniffing around, searching for any of that pesky hope."

"Not… not real," Spike stammered. 'Angelus' chuckled. 

"Real enough, boy." He glided over to the desk and hovered over Spike, who cowered into the chair. "Hang up. Hang up now and I'll make things easier for you." Spike averted his gaze and gripped the phone more tightly. 'Angelus' leaned in, whispering in Spike's free ear.

"Hang up now, and I'll leave her alone."

Spike shook at the import of the words. One last tear rolled down his cheek as he carefully set the handset into the cradle.

'Angelus' smiled.

"Good boy."

~+~

The cell phone died in her hand. Isobelle flung it across the kitchen, not caring as it shattered against the wall. 

"Answer, answer, answer," she begged, waiting for the operator to pick up. "Answer, dammit… ANSWER THE FUCKING PHONE!"

"Switchboard."

Isobelle rattled off the situation, holding as the operator checked the connection.

"Sorry, the party disconnected."

"This is a medical emergency! Can you re-connect?"

"Hold please."

__

Please, please, she prayed, _let me get through._

"Sorry," the operator droned. "It was a long-distance connection and the return path is lost. I have the originating number, but there's no answer on that end."

"You have the number? What is it? Where did it come from?"

The operator supplied the number.

"And the location?" Isobelle asked.

"Somewhere in the United States. California. Just hold a moment while I check… yes, California, from a town called Sunnydale… "

~+~


End file.
